


i need a place to hide (before the storm begins)

by picnokinesis



Series: The Roads That Forgot How To Speak [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe – Human, Case Fic, It’s great, Multi, Unethical Human Experimentation, and thus very mild body-horror, and unsurprisingly she’s a mess, biohacking, canon-typical catfishing, domestic fam, grace isn’t dead, honestly I can’t really explain this au in the tags, it’s far too ridiculous, just a straight up head injury folks, just trust me, non-chameleon arch related amnesia, taka smashsed eddie brock and the doctor into one character, the TARDIS is a campervan, the doctor is also terrible at relationships, the doctor is an investigative journalist, the doctor is genderqueer, the master is a pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 85,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picnokinesis/pseuds/picnokinesis
Summary: “I’ve been busy,” comes the reply as the Doctor slumps back in her seat, looking away out the window again so she can avoid Yaz’s gaze. “And then when I got back it was really late but, y’know, jet lag, and I was taking the bus back from the airport and I heard some people talking about homeless people going missing so I started looking into it straight away –”“Wait wait wait,” Yaz says, incredulous. “You’re telling me you’ve been on a ten-hour flight and then immediately started working on a new case?”“Yep,” the Doctor says, sinking into her seat a little further.
Relationships: Grace O'Brien/Graham O'Brien, The Doctor | Ruth Clayton & Thirteenth Doctor, Thirteenth Doctor & The Master (Dhawan), Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: The Roads That Forgot How To Speak [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018620
Comments: 249
Kudos: 104





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> HEY FOLKS! Here I am, several months after I first mentioned it, FINALLY delivering on that 'crazy long fic' I promised. This first 'part' is complete (which is pretty much exactly like saying the first episode of s12 is complete) and I'll be posting it over the next few weeks. 
> 
> HUGE thank you to everyone one who has cheered me on for this project!! In particular: hetzi (@riptheh) who let me yell at them at 1am multiple times; em (@wreckageofstars), to whom I leaked a ridiculous amount of random scenes to, who then read the entire thing in less than twenty four hours and said 'you NEED to write the rest of this'; and to my wonderful sister (@theplatinthehat) who is beta reading this monster for me. Also shout out to my dad who pulled the most brilliantly horrified face when I told him how long this part was, and that it was part one of nine.
> 
> Enjoy! The title comes from the song [A Place to Hide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7E-U2nfRYAA) by White Lies

_in time,  
the roads forgot how to speak  
and new travellers wandered over them  
as if they were  
alone_

It’s raining hard.

Agent Sacharissa Patel runs, desperately hoping she won’t slip on the wet tarmac. She can’t afford to stop – to even do so much as _falter, hesitate._ To fall now would be game over. And she can’t let that happen.

She’s never been one to give up without a fight.

That’s one of the things that’s always made her a good agent. It’s what got her through her gruelling training, and it’s what pushed her forward through every impossible mission, every blockade that seems impassable. She’ll climb them if she has to. She’ll break them down with her bare hands if she needs to.

It’s one of the things that has always made her able to squash down her fear, fighting through it to retain clarity, logic – the ability to make quick, sensible decisions in a crisis. Something she takes great pride in.

She feels none of that now.

She is consumed by nothing but _panic._

Her feet smack against the wet pavement, breaths coming out in desperate, ragged gasps. She risks a glance over her shoulder, but it’s dark and everything is blurred in her hurry, nothing making any _sense._ All she can pick out is the vague sense of movement in the darkness.

They’re coming.

She’s been chased before – hunted even. And all those times, she’s always been able to outwit her pursuers. There are many tricks to hiding in plain sight, and she knows them all, knows them so well they’re practically instinct to her now. Or, rather, she thought they were. They always have been before. But right now, with the rain lashing against her face and the knowledge that they are _coming,_ that they are so much closer than she should have _ever_ let them get to her, she has regressed to that deepest, baseline instinct. The primal urge to _run,_ to _keep running,_ to _never stop running –_

She lets out a quiet sob, before slamming her mouth shut.

No.

_NO._

She has to think. She has to _beat them._

She will _not go down like this._

The city streets are glistening gold in the light of the lampposts as she looks around desperately, eyes ravenous for some kind of solution – an _escape._ Somewhere she can slip away to, trick them – and oh, they are _so close, they’re too close,_ but there has to be something _there has to be –_

_There._

She barely thinks as she approaches the alley, slipping into it as slickly as she can. And they’ve seen her, it’s _impossible_ that they haven’t, but if she can just find a way to _disappear –_

Her foot catches on a piece of cardboard, and the person sleeping on it jolts awake with a sharp intake of breath. Patel ignores them, whoever they are – poor soul, she hopes they don’t get murdered for this, they never take too kindly to _witnesses_ – and heads straight for the fire escape, climbing up it as deftly and quietly as she can. And she is _good_ at her job, she knows how to be quiet, to be subtle, but her panic still consumes her and there’s only much you can silence desperate footfalls on a metal grate. She pushes forward anyway, refusing to let her panic over take her again. She won’t let it end like this. She _won’t let them take her –_

But then there’s a sharp pain in her shoulder, piercing through the fabric of her hastily-pulled-on jacket, and she staggers to a halt, bleariness suddenly overwhelming her. She stops, staring dumbly at the dart hanging ominously out of her. No. _No, no, no –_

She resists it valiantly, even as her exhaustion brings her to her knees, and then to the floor completely. The cold, wet metal of the fire escape presses against her face, and as her thoughts begin to blur into tranquilised incoherence, that sensation is the last foothold in reality that she can grab onto, fighting to remain conscious with all she has.

The last thing she sees is a black boot walking towards her, stopping right beside her face, before she slips away completely.

She doesn’t feel them pick her up.

She doesn’t feel herself being hauled over someone’s shoulder.

She doesn’t feel the rain, near torrential now, as it soaks through her clothes.

She doesn’t hear the gruff, hurried barks of orders that are given in quick succession as she is carried out of the alleyway.

She doesn’t see the black van pull up to the curb, doesn’t hear the squeal of a sliding door opening.

She doesn’t feel them throwing her into the back before clambering in after her.

She doesn’t feel the hum of the engine through the floor as they drive her away.

She doesn’t see the person in the alleyway, frozen in terror that had kept them silent, kept them still and, more importantly, kept them alive. No-one sees them as they stand on shaking legs, cowering behind the bin they’d been sleeping against.

But then, no one ever really sees them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, lads! The chaos campervan is on the road, and I hope y'all enjoy the ride. I'll post chapter 1 soon (tomorrow or the day after!), but then after that I'll be updating weekly. 
> 
> If you want a visual 'reference' as to who Agent Patel is, she's the M16 agent from the plane that we see unconscious in the episode. 
> 
> The poem at the start is not my own, but you can find it [right here!](https://www.deviantart.com/fridgepoetproject/art/The-Daily-Magnet-280-580315864)


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand onto the main show -

It’s been raining for days now, Yaz notes with a sigh, grateful for the warmth of her police car. The windscreen wipers have been thwip-thwapping for the whole of her shift so far, and there’s little sign of it letting up by the time she gets off and has to walk back home from the station. It’s funny, because despite the thought of leaving the car and getting soaked through doesn’t appeal at _all,_ she still finds herself tapping the wheel with her fingers, waiting impatiently for something interesting to come through on the radio. Something more interesting than a parking dispute – although, if she’s honest, even one of those wouldn’t go amiss. With the evening darkness beginning to roll in earlier this time of year, she feels like she might fall asleep whilst she waits here. She just needs _something_ to liven up this shift. To liven up _all_ her shifts.

She leans forward on the wheel slightly, supressing the sad truth of it that tries to blossom in her chest. It’s all just boring, and worse still, _pointless._ She doesn’t feel like she’s doing any good. She doesn’t feel like she’s _helping_ anyone – or, at least, not like this. None of her superiors will give her anything more than the simplest stuff, even though she _knows_ she can do it. She wants to prove herself, but how can she if they won’t give her the chance?

She sighs then, calming herself. There’s not much point in getting herself riled up about it. Not right now, anyway, when she’s sitting doing nothing on shift and can’t actually do anything about it. And what difference would it make anyway? The higher ups that she’s complained to all just tell her to keep her head down, to not make a fuss. To make herself useful.

She’s been making herself useful since she joined the force, and it’s done nothing.

She can do _more._ She _knows_ she can.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? She’s had a taste of actually making a difference, and now everything seems so meaningless in comparison.

She aches for it, every inch of her.

But before she can think on it any further, her radio buzzes, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“PC Khan, what’s your location, over?” comes the voice of her supervisor, crackling with static. She picks up the radio like lightning striking the earth.

“South Street, over,” she replies immediately, anticipation surging through her veins.

“Alright, head to Kington Road – potential homicide scene. Need you to tape off the area, and there’s two witnesses to take statements from. Over.”

“Received.” She can’t help but grin a little even though she shouldn’t as she twists the key in the ignition. It reminds her far too much of a certain investigative journalist she hasn’t seen in weeks.

Even when the Doctor isn’t around, she’s still finding herself picking up her traits.

The worry that’s been eating at her for the last month returns the moment she thinks of her elusive friend. But the feeling has become almost familiar to her now, and so it fades into the constant undercurrent as she pulls the car away from the curb and out onto the road.

The journey takes a little less than ten minutes, even when she’s driving carefully through the rain. She expects she was the closest officer to the scene, but she can’t help but hope that maybe her supervisor asked her in particular because he trusted her thoroughness, knew her attention to detail. He has called her his _best probationer_ before, she thinks as she struggles to find a parking spot. That has to mean she’s got something right? Although at this point, the compliment feels rather empty. Surely, if she’s the best he’s got, he’d be giving her more –?

But she pushes the thoughts aside again as she finds a parking space and slips the car into it before anyone else can take it. Not now. Now, she’s doing her job.

In the rain.

She supresses a sigh, adjusting her uniform before pushing the door open, stepping out into the downpour and heading towards the scene.

The scene, it turns out, isn’t actually on Kington Road itself, Yaz quickly discovers. The street is quiet, lined with parked cars, grimy pavement slick with rain water. No sigh of anything amiss. But as she walks down, she hears a voice chattering away from down a side alley between two shops. She turns down it immediately, hopefully exuding some sense of authority and confidence. She’s gotten better at it over time – wearing the uniform like she’s meant to be in it, that is. For a while, back when she’d started on the force, she’d had a habit of clinging to it, or clutching her notebook like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She’s grown a lot since then. And none of it really because of her experience as an _officer,_ she thinks with a wry smile.

Although, she supposes she does have the force to thank for something.

If she’d not been on shift that night two years ago…

Not been the first one on scene at that train crash…

Well. Her life would have been very, very different, and a _lot_ more boring.

A lot less fulfilling.

Because she wouldn’t have met –

The voice, louder now, cuts her out of her thoughts. It flows out from behind a large, industrial bin, the vague cadences sharpening into consonants. There’s something about it that is familiar, _too_ familiar, impossible hope blooming in her chest, but also completely ridiculous because –

It can’t be –

“– promise it’ll be fine in the end, though. I’ve never managed to not fix something! Well, that’s not _completely_ true but it is true for the most part. A good rule of thumb. Fixing things is definitely my thing. I fixed a microwave with some spoons once, y’know? I mean, it still goes a bit weird and sets your food on fire every now and then but how would you know it was working if there wasn’t a bit of smoke every now and then?”

Yaz rounds the bin to find two people huddled against an alcove in the wall, one with their back to her, jacket held over their head to hold off the rain. The one facing towards her startles at her sudden appearance, pressing themself further against the wall. The other turns to look, familiar blonde hair sticking to her face, expression dropping from one of confusion to one of panic.

“Ah,” says the Doctor. “Hiya, Yaz.”

Yaz just stares at her in abject shock, before she manages to find her voice. “You’re supposed to be in the _United States._ ”

“Yep!” the Doctor replies, cheerful tone strained. The other person – a young, pale-skinned woman – looks between them both, bedraggled and bewildered in equal measure. “Yep, well, technically not anymore?”

“Uh, sorry?” the young woman says. “What…?”

Yaz shakes her head, frustration brewing in her chest along with the confusion, but she shoves it aside. More important things. There are always more important things. She has a job to do. “Nevermind. I’m here because of the –”

She doesn’t get chance to finish before the pair of them point towards the opposite side of the alley where several sheets of damp cardboard, old clothes and bin bags have been thrown into a pile. Amongst it, having clearly been hidden at some point, lies a dead body.

Yaz just about manages not to flinch in shock.

She’s seen a lot of awful things in the last few years. But none of it takes away that sickening jolt of seeing someone with all the life drained out of them.

She hopes nothing ever does.

She doesn’t ever want to become numb to it.

But she is thankful for her training, which immediately kicks in. She reaches for the police tape in her pocket and glances towards her two witnesses. The Doctor seems fine – and she probably is, for the most part. Yaz knows she’s seen more shocking things than this. But the young woman’s face is a picture of anxiety, even as she attempts to hide it.

“What’s your name?” Yaz asks kindly, hopefully less intimidating. Based on her tatty clothes, gaunt face and woollen hat, Yaz has the feeling she might be homeless, and she doesn’t want to seem threatening to her. She’s done enough graveyard shifts guiltily moving homeless people on from the usual sleeping spots to know that the police aren’t exactly seen in a _friendly_ light by that community.

“Ada,” the woman replies. 

Yaz smiles, and holds out the tape towards her.

“I’m PC Khan. Can you take this and cordon off the alley for me?” she asks. Giving her a task should help ground her. Ada looks at it for a moment, her face creased with a frown, before she nods determinedly and takes the tape and strides down to the opening of the alley. Yaz then turns back to look at the Doctor, who is staring down at the body. Probably to avoid meeting her eyes. Yaz sighs.

It’s been four weeks since the Doctor had abruptly left to go to the States, with nothing but a quick voice message in the group chat to reassure them that she hadn’t disappeared off the face of the Earth. But since then, they’ve had pretty much _no_ contact from her. They don’t even really know what she’s been _up to_ over there, other than it’s something to do with a new case. Which isn’t exactly out of character, unfortunately. And despite her best efforts, Yaz has been _worrying._ Graham has tried to talk her out of it, to tell her that the Doctor has done this sort of thing before and been _absolutely fine –_ although he also admitted she _usually_ stayed in the country.

However, the Doctor has also done this sort of thing before and been _definitely not fine._ In fact, it was about this time last year that she was _definitely kidnapped_ by the Dalek Association.

And she can imagine what the Doctor would say in the face of it. _Occupational hazard. Comes with the trade. I wouldn’t be a very good investigative journalist if I wasn’t ruffling the worst kind of feathers, would I?_

The Doctor also lacks any sense of self-preservation.

And so, she’s been gone. For _four weeks,_ no word or anything. And now she’s showing up in Sheffield next to a dead body, like nothing’s happened, like she hadn’t just _gone_ –

How long has she been back in the country?

Why didn’t she tell them she was _back?_

Why –

The hurt and frustration is bubbling up, beginning to take over the worry that had been sitting like lead in her gut. But she can’t think about it now – later, _later._ She’ll question the Doctor about it all in due time.

But for now –

For now, a woman is dead.

Yaz takes a step closer to the body, looking it over. There’s no smell lingering in the air – she can’t have been dead for all that long. “Alright then. Start from the top. Did you see what happened?”

The Doctor shakes her head, moving to stand beside her. “Nah. I was just talking to Ada there. I’m gonna do another article on homelessness in Sheffield.” She looks over at Yaz abruptly, her eyes fierce with injustice. “Do the police know that people have been going missing? From the homeless community?”

Yaz opens her mouth, then closes it again, trying to think in the face of her friend’s complete scrutiny. “We’ve had a couple of reports, but…well, homeless people are transient, aren’t they? People move on, don’t stick in the same place…”

The Doctor shakes her head, adamant. “This isn’t that, this is different.” Her face crumples. “You don’t really believe it’s just nothing, do you?”

“I –” Yaz starts. “I don’t know yet. We need more evidence.”

“It isn’t nothing,” the Doctor insists, before looking at the body again. “You want more evidence? You’ve got it.”

Yaz’s gaze lingers on the Doctor’s face for a moment, before turning back to the body as Ada returns to stand beside the Doctor. The corpse’s hair is dark and long, and her clothes are dull but well fitted. Sturdy. She certainly doesn’t _look_ like she’d been homeless to Yaz – but then, she’s learnt by now that making assumptions like that only clouds your judgement, stops you seeing the bigger picture. Still…she’s unsure. The woman is also injured – cut lip, black eye, and a few other scratches and bruises across her face. She’d clearly taken a beating before she’d died.

“Tell me what you know,” she tells the Doctor, glancing over at her. “Everything.”

The Doctor shrugs, using her free hand to push the wet hair out of her eyes. “Well, like I said. I’m doing another article, so I came out to talk to people, find out if anyone knew more about these disappearances. Someone pointed me in Ada’s direction. She said she’d seen someone get taken, so she was just showing me the place where she’d seen it happen.”

Yaz’s gaze flicks over to Ada, and understanding suddenly clicks into place, explaining the young woman’s nervousness. “Here?”

Ada nods. “I was sleeping just there –” she points to beside the bin – “when someone came running past, started climbing up that fire escape. Then a bunch of people came after her. Knocked her out or something, carried her into a van and drove off.”

“When was this?” Yaz asks.

“Two nights ago,” comes the reply. “I don’t know what time. Early.”

 _Why didn’t you call the police,_ is the question that immediately bites at her tongue, but she swallows it back for now. She can imagine the answer. She probably didn’t think anyone would take her seriously – or, worse, would try and pin it on her if anything came to light. “And so, you came back here today to show the Doctor, and then…?”

Ada doesn’t frown at the name – the Doctor probably introduced herself already, then.

“I didn’t like the look of that pile,” the Doctor admits, nose wrinkling. “And Ada said it hadn’t been here when she was here before.”

 _Hm._ That’s interesting. “When were you here before? Was it since you saw the kidnapping?”

Unfortunately, Ada shakes her head adamantly. “No. As soon as those people who took her were gone, I ran off.”

“Did you see what they looked like? Any of their faces?”

“It was dark…” Ada says, “but they were wearing helmets of some kind. All the same, like a uniform. The person they took though…” She tails off, looking at the body in front of them. “I think it was her.”

“How sure are you on that?”

Ada purses her lips, before nodding again. “Pretty sure. It was dark, but…I did see her face. They carried her past me.”

“They didn’t see you?”

Ada pauses. “No. I stayed still and they were…busy.”

Yaz considers this.

“But the thing is,” the Doctor says, in that tone of hers that Yaz knows far too well. It’s her _case_ voice, for when she’s following all the threads through and drawing her conclusions, pulling things together. Yaz can’t help but love it – she’s _missed_ it, these last four weeks, and even her frustration over that can’t quite overshadow it. “Ada says there’s a couple of people who’ve seen people getting taken before, yeah? But they’ve never seen any bodies getting dumped. And Ada says she hadn’t seen this woman before that night. Which means she probably wasn’t part of the homeless community here, which _means –”_

“This incident might not even be connected?” Yaz finishes, her eyebrows raised.

“ _Or…_ ” the Doctor says, “this woman was involved in whatever’s going on, and she got targeted for some reason.”

About two years ago, Yaz thinks she’d have dismissed that idea as a conspiracy. She’d probably have dismissed the Doctor outright, actually – just a reporter, desperately digging through the dirt for a story, no matter how twisted from reality it is.

But it’s not two years ago. And she knows the Doctor. She digs in the dirt, alright – but she _always_ uncovers the truth.

And she knows the world isn’t as clear cut as the law she’s supposed to uphold would lead her to believe.

“What sort of reason would they have for that?” Yaz says, more wondering out loud than genuinely asking. She looks at the Doctor. “Could she have found out information she wasn’t supposed to? And why would they leave the body? Is it a mistake? Or a warning of some kind?”

A grin tugs at the Doctor’s face, sending warmth blooming in Yaz’s chest. “ _Now_ you’re asking the right questions.” The hand that isn’t holding up the jacket over her head reaches out to give Yaz a friendly punch in the arm. “Yasmin Khan. You been getting rusty without me?”

The warmth in her chest immediately frosts over with a cool anger, and she gives the Doctor an unimpressed look. “Really?”

Guilt flashes across her friend’s face, quick and sharp. The Doctor looks away, back at the body.

“Let’s not do this now,” she says.

Yaz gives a hum of agreement. “Later,” she says, stern.

The Doctor’s shoulders sag.

“I’m sorry, but –” Ada interrupts, adjusting her hat. “You two…know each other?”

“We’re good friends,” Yaz confirms, giving Ada a smile.

“Yep!” the Doctor says, leaning over to Ada conspiratorially. “When she’s not in uniform, she gets into an awful lot of trouble with me.”

“Hey!” Yaz says, blushing a little, because – well, the Doctor definitely could have worded that better, and she prefers it much more when her work life and her _real_ life don’t get muddled up, thanks very much. “I don’t –”

But it’s then that the radio on her belt crackles into life, the voice of her supervisor spurting out of it. She turns her back to the pair, taking a few steps away before pressing the button on the side.

“Receiving,” she says into it.

“A team from Serious Crime are on their way to you now. They should be there to take charge of the scene in a few minutes. Over.”

“Understood, over.” She clips the radio back onto her belt, staying still for just a moment as she thinks about how, very soon, this whole case will be taken off her hands, and she’ll be left with the paperwork. Then she turns back to face the other two again.

“Why don’t we go sit in my car, to get out of the rain?” she says. “Then we can warm up and I’ll take your statements.”

They both agree (the Doctor somewhat more reluctantly than Ada), and by the time the other team of officers have arrived and set up their stuff, Yaz has several pages of notes filled up with the limited information that the two of them can give her. She gets out and attempts to offer to help on the incident, a dim optimism flickering in her gut – but they just tell her to take the witnesses wherever they want to go, away from the scene.

But then, Yaz supposes that isn’t completely a bad thing as she eyes the Doctor through the raindrop tapestry on the car window.

The pair of them need a _talk,_ and she knows her friend well enough to know she’ll try to avoid exactly that at all costs.

But Yaz isn’t going to give up that easily.

She sits back in the driver’s seat with a huff, catching the Doctor mid-sentence as she talks quietly to Ada.

“– just an interviewee’s fee,” she says, and Yaz turns to see the Doctor is holding out a couple of ten pound notes to her.

Ada gives her a defiant look. “I can take care of myself.”

The Doctor holds up her hand innocently. “Don’t I know it. But it’s the same for everyone I interview, I swear. Just as a thank you for your time.”

Yaz hides her frown, knowing that the Doctor is absolutely lying through her teeth. But she sounds genuine enough that Ada seems to accept it, and quietly takes the money.

She clears her throat, and the pair of them glance up at her. She directs her gaze at Ada. “Is there anywhere I can take you? Anywhere you can go?”

She thinks of this young woman, who almost looks like a _girl_ , sitting out somewhere in the cold and the rain. The weather’s been awful for days, and January is never kind to rough sleepers.

“Just the centre of town,” she says. “I can handle myself from there.”

Yaz opens her mouth to protest, but then decides better of it. “Alright, if you’re sure.”

The Doctor leans forward on the chair in front of her. “If you could take me to the TARDIS, that’d be grand, it’s just –”

“Nope,” Yaz says, in a tone that means _no arguments,_ that, irritatingly, reminds her of her own mother. She ploughs on ahead anyway. “ _You_ are going to the O’Briens.” 

The Doctor opens her mouth to argue, but Yaz cuts her off.

“ _No_ arguments. They’ve been worried sick.”

The Doctor shuts her mouth at that, guilt completely shadowing her face now. Yaz watches her as she slumps back in the seat, folds her arms and stares out the window, looking for all the world like Sonya when she’s in one of her moods.

“The TARDIS?” Ada asks. “What’s that?”

Yaz can’t help but smile at the question as she turns back and twists the key into the ignition, starting the engine. “It’s her campervan. She practically lives in it.”

She moves the car out of the parking space, checking over her shoulder before moving out onto the road and heading towards the centre of town. She catches a glimpse of Ada frowning in the rearview mirror. “Why does she call it that?”

“It’s the numberplate,” the Doctor answers, still looking sulkily out of the window. “T, A, R, D, 1, 5. TARDIS.”

“Personalised?”

“Yep,” comes the reply. “It’s second hand, though. No idea what it means.”

Ada hums, thoughtful.

“I’ll let you look at her sometime, if you like,” the Doctor tells her, suddenly perking up. “I think you’d like her. I made a few adjustments to things myself.”

The offer hits Yaz like a curveball – the Doctor never lets _anyone_ touch the TARDIS, let alone offers to let them _tinker with it_. The only exception to that is _Ryan_ , but that was only after she’d known him for _months._

“You tinker too?” Ada asks, intrigued.

“Yep!” the Doctor says, and Yaz can hear her grin without even needing to look in the mirror.

“But I thought you were a journalist?”

“Yeah, well I’ve got hobbies, don’t I? I wasn’t joking about that microwave! Mind you, sometimes it doesn’t always go to plan, but the TARDIS is running better now than she was when I first got her, so that’s saying something. So what do you say? Wanna take a look? At some point?”

Ada hums again. “I think I’d like that.”

“Great!” There’s a shuffle, and Yaz glances in the mirror to see the Doctor wriggling to pull her phone out of her pocket. “You’ve got a phone right? Let me give you my number.”

Ok, _now_ Yaz feels _really_ annoyed. She suddenly realises that underneath that shock of the Doctor being so trusting of this woman she’s only met today is an ugly twist of jealousy and hurt. Several cutting remarks teeter on the tip of her tongue – but she purses her lips, swallowing them down. Ada’s had a rough enough few days already, and none of what the Doctor’s doing is _her_ fault.

And so Yaz lets her irritation silently simmer in her gut until she’s pulling the car up beside the curb to let Ada out. The woman adjusts her coat, before reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” Yaz says, just as she pushes the door open. “If you need anything, any help or if you see anything else, you can just call the station, yeah? Ask for me.”

Ada hesitates, and then nods, glancing back at the Doctor for a moment. The Doctor smiles, giving her a wave, before Ada steps out into the rain and shuts the door.

For a moment, there is silence, save for the patter of raindrops on the windshield.

Yaz grips the steering wheel.

“Before you say anything,” the Doctor hedges with the cautiousness of a cat that knows it’s knocked over the fishbowl, “I am sorry.”

Yaz sighs. “How long?”

The Doctor blinks in the rearview mirror. “How long what?”

“Since you’ve been _back._ ” Yaz twists round in the seat to stare at her, just in time to see the flicker of panic dart across the Doctor’s face again.

“Not long!” she assures. “Not long at all, I promise!”

“ _How long?_ ”

The Doctor glances at her phone.

“Less than 24 hours,” she says glumly.

Which probably means about 23 hours, knowing the Doctor. 23 hours and 50 minutes.

“Why didn’t you let us know you were back?” she asks, wishing the questions didn’t sound so needy. _Why did you go? Why did you leave us?_ “Why haven’t you talked to us at all?”

“I’ve been _busy,_ ” comes the reply, as the Doctor slumps back in her seat, looking away out the window again so she can avoid Yaz’s gaze. “And then when I got back it was really late but, y’know, _jet lag,_ and I was taking the bus back from the airport and I heard some people talking about homeless people going missing so I started looking into it straight away –”

“Wait wait wait,” Yaz says, incredulous. “You’re telling me you’ve been on a ten-hour flight and then immediately started working on a new case?”

“Yep,” the Doctor says, sinking into her seat a little further.

“Have you even _slept?_ ” she asks, then shakes her head. “Dumb question. Of course you haven’t.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” the Doctor insists. “Besides, it was important –”

“More important than us knowing you were ok?”

The Doctor purses her lips. “You knew I was fine. I always am,” she says, but it’s quiet. Unsure.

“Not true and also not really the point,” Yaz snaps, but she can’t help but feel absurdly _guilty_ at the look of shame on the Doctor’s face. “You just took off without warning and – we _missed_ you. You wouldn’t even reply to us.”

The Doctor’s expression crumples. “I know. I’m _sorry._ But look –” she holds out her hands – “I’m fine, and I’m back!” She tries for a sheepish smile.

Yaz just stares at her for a moment, before turning back around and pulling the car away from the curb.

“Where’re we going?” the Doctor tries.

“Graham and Grace’s,” Yaz says firmly. “Just like I said.”

“I’d really rather just go to the TARDIS first, I promise I’ll go straight to them after –”

“Nope,” Yaz says. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Besides, you owe them an apology.” She gives her a pointed look in the rearview mirror. “A better one that the one you gave me.”

“I think I’ll give a better apology if I’ve had a nap first.”

Yaz bites back a frustrated sigh. “I’m sure they’ll let you sleep on their sofa again.”

The Doctor scrunches up her face in displeasure. “I don’t want to impose –”

“You _wouldn’t be,_ ” Yaz says, sharp, and is that it? Is that the problem? Does she think she’s imposing her friendship on them? Is that why she went completely off the radar? “Because they care about you. We _all_ do. You know that, right?”

“‘ _Course_ I do,” she retorts. “I know you do. It’s just…”

She trails off, clearly not intending to finish her sentence.

“Just what?” Yaz asks, not willing to let her get away with it _that_ easily.

The Doctor sighs. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Don’t even know where I was going with that.”

Figures. But as Yaz glances again in the rearview mirror, the look on her friend’s face is acutely miserable, and part of her anger drains away. Because Yaz really has missed her, even though it’s not been _that_ long, not in the grand scheme of things.

But she knows why. Ever since she met the Doctor, her life has become so much _more._ The Doctor took her hand and pulled her into a world full of excitement and _danger,_ and put her in the position where she could actually make a _difference._ Where she could _help._ For the first time since she could remember, she’d felt like she had a purpose in life. A place she’s supposed to be, and a group of people she can call friends. Family, even, in their odd little way.

The thought that the Doctor could just up and leave at any moment…could just leave them without so much as a proper goodbye, and everything she’s holding onto so tightly could come unravelled…

It scares her more than it should, maybe.

But it does scare her.

“It’s good to see you again,” she says.

The Doctor looks away from the window into the mirror, smiling a little sheepishly. “It’s good to see you too.” She sits up a bit, like a little of the weight has come off her shoulders. “How are the others? They weren’t too worried, were they?”

“They’re doing fine,” she tells her. “You missed Graham trying to cook Christmas dinner.”

The Doctor’s face cracks with a genuine smile. “Don’t tell me he burnt the broccoli again.”

Yaz can’t help but smile as well, despite everything. “Yep. And the carrots too. They were all burnt to the bottom of the pan.”

“ _How?_ You’d think he’d’ve learnt after last time!”

Yaz scoffs at that. “Like you can judge! You’re even more of a mess in the kitchen than he is!” A concerning thought crosses her mind. “You better have eaten more than just custard creams whilst you’ve been away.”

“I did!” she protests. “And not by choice, neither! Do you know how hard it is to get hold of custard creams in Baltimore? It was terrible! They kept giving me fake scones when I asked for biscuits!”

Yaz has to bite her lip so she doesn’t laugh as she turns into the road that leads to the O’Brien’s. “Didn’t you take any with you?”

“Only one packet,” the Doctor laments. “And I got a bit peckish on the trip there so I ate about half of them.”

“Aww,” Yaz says. “Well, maybe if you apologise nicely to Graham and Grace, they’ll let you have a few.”

The Doctor scowls, but doesn’t say anything in response. A glance in the mirror tells Yaz that she’s staring out the window again. She looks more like a teenager than the thirty-something years she _actually_ is.

It’s less than a minute before they’re passing by the house, and thankfully the time of day and the weather combined means there are a couple of spaces free. Good. As much as Yaz would _like_ to trust the Doctor, she wouldn’t put it past her to do a runner if Yaz doesn’t actually take her right up to the door and make sure Graham or Grace have taken her inside. Is that a bit much? Possibly. But she’s just found her, and the scenario where she disappears off the face of the Earth all over again, just so she doesn’t have to face a difficult conversation, is all too plausible.

She cuts off the engine, slipping the keys into her pocket, and starts to psych herself up for going out into the downpour again.

“Maybe we could just stay in here for a bit,” the Doctor says. Yaz shakes her head.

“I’ve got to get back. Still got an hour or so of my shift left.” As much as she’d _like_ to stay here and keep the Doctor in her sights, she really does need to get back. She needs to process the witness statements, if nothing else. She turns to glance at the Doctor again, who has pressed herself as far as she can into the car seat. Yaz just smiles as she reaches for the door handle, a little sympathetic – but not very. “Come on. You already faced me. These two are hardly going to be worse than that.”

“They’ll probably try ‘n hug me,” the Doctor moans. Yaz winces – yeah, she can see that happening. And the Doctor’s never exactly been the _touchy-feely_ kind.

“Best get it over with, then,” she says, before pushing her door open. She pushes it shut before opening the Doctor’s, not about to let her sit and stew for any longer. “Out you get.”

The Doctor yelps at the rain suddenly pelting her through the opening, and jumps out. “Oi! I was getting out!”

“Sure you were,” she says, shutting the door behind her before heading down the pavement at a brisk pace. “Come on!”

To her credit, the Doctor breaks into something reminiscent of a run to catch up, and the pair of them are soon on the O’Brien’s doorstep, the Doctor lingering a couple of steps behind Yaz and looking around nervously, like she’s calculating some kind of elaborate escape plan. But the doorbell has already chimed, and Yaz is determined. Graham or Grace will answer, she’s certain of it – Ryan’s probably at work. And if they don’t, well…she’ll drag the Doctor back to her mum if she needs to. Even _she_ can’t say no in the face of Najia Khan.

The doors swings open with a familiar squeak, and Yaz is greeted with the confused face of Grace O’Brien as she takes in her presence on the doorstep, in full police uniform. “Yaz? What brings you –” She falters the moment her eyes fall on the figure behind her. “ _Doctor?”_

The Doctor gives a sheepish wave. “Hiya, Grace.”

There is a brief moment where Yaz thinks Grace is going to stand there and stare at the Doctor in disbelief. But Grace, Yaz has come to realise, is exceptionally good at taking everything in her stride – especially everything relating to the _Doctor,_ and all the chaos that she wraps herself up in – and simply takes a step back from the door.

“Come on in, quickly!” she says, waving them inside. “You’ll catch your death out there!”

The Doctor rolls her eyes.

“I actually need to go,” Yaz explains quickly. “Got to get back to work. But I figured you wouldn’t mind an unexpected visitor.”

“Of course not,” Grace says as the Doctor starts trudging up the steps, and the older woman turns her gaze to look at her. “When did you get back then, love?”

“Today,” the Doctor replies.

“‘ _Less than twenty-four hours ago’_ is what she said to me _,_ ” Yaz corrects, giving Grace a look of _don’t let her out of your sight._ Grace returns it with an understanding look of her own.

“Yes, so technically today,” the Doctor grumbles, hesitating a moment at the threshold of the door, before stepping inside and scuffing her boots on the doormat. “‘course, that depends on which timezone you’re in.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not on about the UK timezone?” Grace asks, clearly amused, before looking back at Yaz. “You get on, love. I can manage her from here.”

“Oi! I don’t need managing!” the Doctor protests as she nearly falls against the wall trying to push her trainer off with her other foot. “I’m very easy to deal with!”

Grace just smiles at that, before leaning back into the house. “Graham!” she shouts. “Come down here! We’ve got a visitor!”

There’s a muffled shout of ‘just a minute!’ from upstairs, to which Grace smiles fondly. She looks back to the Doctor, and then at Yaz, who still can’t help but linger. It doesn’t quite feel right, to let the Doctor out of her sight again. Maybe it’s childish, but she can’t shake the idea that if she turns away and goes back on her shift, she’ll come back and the Doctor will be gone again.

But then again, she supposes that’s what happened the time before. She clocked off, just to find a message in the group chat and a friend gone without warning.

“Go sit in the kitchen, love,” Grace says to the Doctor, her gaze flicking over to Yaz.

“‘m going,” the Doctor grumbles, before disappearing further into the house. Grace watches her go for a moment, before stepping out onto the doorstep, staying just under the overhang to shield herself from the downpour.

“You alright, love?” Grace asks, like she knows exactly what Yaz has been thinking, but is kind enough not to lay it out in the open. She smiles slightly.

“I’m fine,” she assures – and finds that she mostly means it, under the bubbling torment of emotions. “Just don’t let her off too easy, yeah?”

Grace chuckles at that, shaking her head. “Where did you find her? Were you on a call?”

Yaz purses her lips, trying to decide how much she can tell Grace, and how much is wrapped up in the confidentiality of the murder inquiry that’ll be opened imminently. “I was called to a scene. She was one of the witnesses.”

Grace frowns. “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine,” she says. “I don’t think she was even involved.”

“Well, that would make a first.”

Yaz manages a genuine smile at that. “It would.” She clears her throat, reminding herself that she has work to get back to. “Alright then.”

“You’re welcome to come back around for tea after your shift, if you get off soon enough,” Grace offers, before she tilts her head knowingly. “Either way, I’ll make sure she’s still here when you’re back.”

Yaz ducks her head, a little sheepish. “Thanks.” She starts making her way down the steps. “I might be back. Depends if my dad’s cooking tea.”

Grace smiles, like she already knows what her decision will be. “Take care, Yaz.”

Yaz nods, and turns her back, heading out towards the car. She can’t help but listen out for the click of the door as Grace closes it behind her, keeping everything within the house safely inside. A little of the tension leaves her shoulders, and a bloom of relief begins to unfurl in her chest. She keeps her head down against the rain, smiling at the slick pavement that shimmers with reflected streetlights beneath her feet.

The Doctor is _back_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOP!! I'm so happy for you guys to finally see roads!Doctor in her full, chaotic glory - she's been rattling around in my head for so long now...
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter - let me know what you think! I feel like.....a lot of things are hinted at in this chapter but not explained RIP, but don't worry, most of the au-basics will be laid down in the next chapter (which I will be posting at this time next week!) I also hope you liked how I wrote Yaz - before this au, I'd barely written her in general, let alone anything from her POV, so this was definitely an interesting challenge
> 
> Oh! I've also drawn a cover/poster to celebrate the fact I've started posting, so go and [check it out right here](https://picnokinesis.tumblr.com/post/635242933641183232/ive-been-busy-comes-the-reply-as-the-doctor)


	3. Chapter Two

“You really should have messaged us, cockle,” Graham chides as he puts the kettle on. “Grace was right worried.”

“And you weren’t?” Grace shoots back with a raise of her eyebrows.

“I didn’t say I weren’t!”

The Doctor sighs, feeling that guilt bubble up fresh as she shifts in her seat at the kitchen table, damp socks curling around the bar of the chair. Behind her eyes, her head pounds. “Yeah, I know I should’ve. I meant to, honest, I just got – busy. You know how it is.”

It’s a terrible excuse, and they deserve so much better. _Yaz_ deserved so much better too. But it’s the only thing she can give them.

The alternative is something they wouldn’t like to hear, she’s sure.

“Well, it’s good to have you back safe and sound,” Grace says.

“It’s good to be back,” she returns, and she means it. Of course she does.

“So, what did you get up to over there, then?” Graham asks, a slight edge to his tone that tells her he’s not about to let her off as easily as Grace seems to have. He comes over to stand beside the table. “Come on, then. I wanna know what was so interesting that you missed my Christmas dinner! Couldn’t even send us a couple of snaps! Some of us have never been to America, y’know!”

“I’ll show you my photos!” she assures him, before scrunching up her face. “Although you probably won’t find them all that interesting. Mostly the inside of the warehouse we were investigating.”

“What were you looking into?” Grace asks – and ah, yes. The Doctor remembers that she hadn’t _actually_ given them much of an explanation as to _why_ she’d gone. In fact, she’s pretty sure she’d just left a voice message in the group chat, something along the lines of _‘Hi fam! Not getting kidnapped, I promise! Something just came up – new case, rather urgent. Gotta head to the States. I’ll let you know when I get there! I’m in the airport now, actually! Oh, the baggage lady is giving me a funny look, got to go!’._

And she _had_ messaged them when she’d arrived, so they didn’t worry. But – well.

After that she’d rather buried her head in things, hadn’t she?

And dropped off the radar for four weeks.

“It was a big online shopping warehouse – for this corporation called _Kerblam! –_ they’re pretty popular over there. And y’see, there’s this American reporter called Perpugilliam Brown, although everyone just calls her Peri, and she wanted to do a collaborative case with my friend Sarah Jane, yeah? Only Sarah Jane couldn’t, she had to look after Luke, so she suggested me instead!” She scrunches up her face. “Although apparently I’ve worked with Peri before. Don’t remember it. She said last time I was quite rude to her, actually.”

And if that doesn’t sum up her life for the last couple of years, she doesn’t know what does. Because, unfortunately, she ends up bumping into people she doesn’t realise she knows much more often than she’d like. It’s all thanks to a rather nasty train crash she’d been involved with about two years ago. She’d been – well, she’s not actually completely sure _what_ she’d been doing precisely, but from what she can put together, she’d been investigating organised crime in Sheffield, specifically following a lead on a man called Tim Shaw, who was deep into the black-market organ trade. A _not_ very nice guy, who had the delightful habit of beating up people just so he could punch out a tooth to add to his collection. Thankfully, she’d uncovered enough evidence to get the man put behind bars for a _very_ long time. But in the process…

She thinks that she must have followed Shaw or one of his associates onto the train after they’d clocked her following them and tried to shake her off their tail. In their desperation, they’d – well, done _something_ to the electrics in the driver’s cabin, which had caused a small explosion and sent the whole train screeching to a rather sudden halt. The Doctor had taken a _very_ bad knock to the head, and woken up with a screaming headache and no idea what her own _name_ was, let alone what had just happened. That had been where she’d first met Grace and Graham, and not long afterwards Ryan and Yaz too. Of course, extensive amnesia and bleeding head notwithstanding, she’d immediately taken charge of the situation and gone after Shaw. Which probably hadn’t been _that_ good of an idea, in hindsight, since she’d hit the deck about halfway through the whole affair. And, much to Grace’s dismay, she’d flat out refused to be taken to A&E.

She’s not completely sure why, but the very _thought_ of going to a hospital had sent an instinctive sense of _panic_ twisting in her gut – and still does.

In the first few hours and days after the crash, her memories had begun to trickle back. It was mostly basic things at first – stuff like her age, her name. Or, rather, the name she’d _chosen_ for herself. ‘The Doctor’ – both an alias to publish her journalism work under and a nickname of sorts – had come much sooner than her _birth_ name, Theta Lungbarrow. Her first reaction upon remembering _that_ one had been to immediately understand _why_ she insisted on going by _Doctor_ instead of that monstrosity, even though she didn’t even _have_ a doctorate of any kind.

And then, over a couple of weeks or so, more of her memories had come pouring back into her mind, the picture of herself becoming a little more complete. There’s still a lot missing, blank patches, she knows that – mostly from her childhood and teenage years. There’s a lot of things she _knows_ from information she’s found, or been given about herself, rather than from her own memories. In the weeks after the incident, she’d done some digging and found out that she’d grown up in foster care. She’d managed to get in contact with her foster brother – a rather pretentious man with the suitably pretentious name of Braxiatel (or just Brax, since she’d refused to call him _that)_ , who’d managed to dig up a few details about her life that had been lost to her. Apparently, she’d been found in the road as a young child, abandoned with a note stating her name and not much else. For most of her childhood, she’d been passed from foster family to foster family, before ending up at a group home on Gallifrey Road in Skelmanthorpe. There are slivers that she remembers, sometimes – vague feelings, flashes of things…nothing that she can truly _grasp._ It’s infuriating, especially to someone like her who is constantly striving for _answers._ Before the crash and after, she’s built her life on being a seeker of the truth, and she can’t even decipher the mystery that is her own past.

But at this point, she’s mostly learnt to accept it. Most people didn’t remember a lot of their childhood anyway, right? And she could spend all the time in the world trying to recover what she’s lost, and never get anywhere. Or, she can focus on the here and now – she can do what drives her, which is to right wrongs and make a difference where no one else dares to. And so, that’s what she does. She changes the world with her words, shouting and screaming in the form of neatly typed articles until people have to sit up and listen. Until things get _better_ for the people everyone likes to ignore – the ones society has cast out. She’s the voice for the ones no one wants to listen to. The homeless. The exploited workers. Children, hurt and abused. Anyone who needs her.

Because when people ask for help, she’s the one who shows up. And she never refuses, no matter how dangerous.

She’s the Doctor.

She _fixes_ things.

“If you were rude to her before,” Grace asks, completely dragging the Doctor out of her thoughts, “why would she agree to work with you again?”

The Doctor just smiles tiredly and gives a coy shrug. She’d posed the exact same question to Peri. “Apparently, we made quite the team, even though I was – and I quote – _an egotistical asshole with the compulsive need to stick her nose in wherever she likes_.” She gives an amused huff, before leaning back in her chair. “But the _Kerblam!_ case needed someone just like that, she said. We got on pretty well in the end.”

“Not afraid to be frank then, that one,” Graham says as the kettle grumbles to a boiling point, and he starts fiddling around with a teapot. He gives the Doctor a side glance. “You didn’t switch over to coffee whilst you was over there, did you?”

The Doctor sits up immediately, jaw dropped open in mock-offence. “ _Graham._ How could you even say that?!”

“I know, I know! It’s blasphemy!” the older man chuckles, pouring the boiling water into the pot. “Just thought I’d check, since it’s been so long!”

“It’s not been _that_ long!” she protests.

“It’s been about a month, love,” Grace says, her tone firm, but laced with an almost motherly sort of concern that the Doctor isn’t quite sure how to react to. She keeps her gaze fixed on Graham pouring the tea so that she doesn’t have to meet Grace’s eyes.

“Well, when you put it like that it does sound like a bit of a while,” she admits reluctantly. “But I bet you guys had lots of fun without me. You don’t need me around to cause chaos.”

Graham laughs as Grace opens the fridge, pulling out a bottle of milk and handing it to him without uttering a word. “Too right we don’t! It’s been mostly quiet here without you!”

“Graham!” Grace admonishes.

“Now, I don’t mean that in a bad way! We all know I’ve learnt to love a little bit of your kind of chaos.” He gives the Doctor a smile than she can’t help but return sheepishly. “But I don’t pass up a bit of peace and quiet every now and then.”

He reaches over, putting a steaming mug on the table in front of her, before turning back to grab the pot of sugar and a spoon, which he places next to it.

“Thanks,” she says, wondering if maybe he’s saying it to try and make her feel a bit less guilty as she starts to spoon in her sugars. She’s not sure – she knows they’re all angry at her, at least a little bit. But, somehow, they care about her too much to let that get in the way of making sure she’s alright.

She shouldn’t be surprised at that. They’re good people. _Brilliant_ people.

Kind people.

They’d love anyone. Even someone like her, who seems intent on screwing up every meaningful relationship she can remember having (and probably those she can’t).

She stops at the seventh spoonful, stirring it into the drink which is rather treacle-y now. Just how she likes it. She glances up at Graham to see him watching in a hopeless sort of horror.

“You think you wouldn’t forget a thing like that,” he muses. “But somehow, I did.”

She just gives him a grin over the lip of her mug before taking a gulp, ignoring how hot it is. “You missed me and my seven sugars. Admit it.”

“I certainly missed _you,_ cockle,” he replies, shaking his head.

“Did you finish your case, then? Is that why you’re back?” Grace asks, gently tugging the conversation back into more informative territory. Graham passes her a mug of her own, and she presses a kiss into his cheek as he steps closer, jolting him enough that a small amount of liquid spills from the cup and drips onto the floor. Graham sighs and gives her a pointed look, which Grace just returns with a pleased smile.

“Yeah, I did,” the Doctor answers, hiding the smile that tugs at her own lips behind another slurp of tea. “So – the reason we were looking into it was because workers had been going missing from this particular packing warehouse. And they were using some new tech there – intelligent systems and all that. _Very_ intelligent. State of the art robotics, too! And what seemed at _first_ like error messages coming from the system was actually a sort of _loophole_ that the system was using to say it was being messed with. Turns out an employee was sabotaging.”

“What for?” Grace asks.

“There’s a lot of unemployment in that area,” she explains. “He thought that bringing in more technology meant that there were less jobs for people, so he was trying to make it look like the system was malfunctioning at first. Then when that didn’t work, he went for making it look straight up _dangerous._ ” She pauses, taking a sip of tea. “Seems like he didn’t care that his co-workers were getting killed in the process.”

Graham gives a low whistle as he picks up his own cup from the counter. “Sounds like maybe he wasn’t quite right in the head.”

“Graham…” Grace says disapprovingly.

“What?” he replies. “I’m just saying! It’s not normal to be so determined to get what you want that you’re willing to let people die.”

The Doctor scoffs at that. “I dunno. Plenty of people at the top of the ladder who are perfectly happy to let workers suffer if it means they stay rich. But they’re not ‘crazy’ – they’re just ‘successful’.”

Graham hums. “Yeah, I suppose you are right about that one.”

Her smile tugs into a coy smirk. “I usually am.”

“Ah!” Graham says, pointing his spoon at her. “Don’t get too cocky! Don’t think I’ve completely forgiven you for running off like that!” 

And that guilt just comes flowing right back, and she can’t even resent him for it. He’s right. Yaz was right too. Still, she manages to stop the smile falling completely off her face, even as it tightens. “I know…” She forces herself to look up, glancing between the two of them. “I really am sorry. I mean it.”

Grace lets out a sigh, and there’s a look in her eyes like she wants the Doctor to promise she won’t do it again. That she won’t just disappear from their lives one day.

She glances at Graham, and she sees the question lingering in his face too.

But neither of them ask.

“We know you are, love,” Grace says in the end.

“We just worry about you,” Graham says.

She smiles sadly at that. It’s nice, in the worst way, to have people who care about her.

But she’s glad they haven’t asked.

Because she’d make the promise, just to see that tension leave their shoulders.

And then, eventually, she’d have to break it.

Because over these last two years of piecing her life back together, she’s come to realise certain traits about herself. And one of those is a strange sort of _expectancy_ that people are going to leave her. She supposes it comes from that place in her mind that is mostly blocked off to her – the part where she finds brief memories of being told she has a few minutes to pack everything she owns into a bin bag, because she’s going to live somewhere else. Even if she doesn’t really remember it, at some point she must have learnt that most people leave her, in the end. Which means at some point she started self-sabotaging – leaving _first,_ so at least the inevitable loss hurts just that bit less. It’s something ingrained enough that she carried it with her even through her amnesia.

These lot, though. Graham, Grace, and Yaz and Ryan too. They’re not letting her go without a fight, and she can’t help but feel a warm bloom of fondness in the face of it.

Because she doesn’t want to lose them either.

In fact, she can’t _stand_ the thought of it.

As far as she can remember, she’s never done so well on her own.

“I know you do,” she says in the end. “But you don’t need to.” She tilts her head, thinking about it. “Hm. Actually, I bet you were worried I’d gone and hit my head again, weren’t you?”

Graham chuckles at that. “The thought had crossed our minds.” But then he shakes his head. “I know we don’t need to. We know you can manage yourself just fine. It’s just – well, you’re practically family, aren’t you?”

“Oh, she is,” Grace comments. “Anyone with official invites to Christmas Dinner count as family, in my book.”

“Right, exactly! And family look out for each other. Which means you going off is gonna give me grey hairs until hell freezes over, no matter what you say. It’d be the same with Ryan – or Yaz.” He shrugs. “That’s just what you signed up for, Doc. Can’t do nowt about it.”

“On that note,” Grace hedges, and the Doctor immediately winces at the question that’s inevitably coming. “When do you last sleep, Doctor?”

She groans, her headache throbbing pointedly. “Yaz asked me that too. Why does everyone always ask me that? _Peri_ even asked me that when I met her at the airport.”

Graham huffed a laugh. “Because you always look like you’re running on about an hour’s worth. Although right now you look like you’re running on close to nothing.”

“I slept on the plane,” she protests. “For a bit, anyway.”

“And when did you land?” Grace asks, not letting her wriggle her way out of it. She sighs.

“It may or may not have been late last night,” she admits, staring determinedly at her tea like it might back her up somehow.

“Last night!” Graham says. “It’s nearly 5pm now! Tell me you’ve slept since _then…_ ”

“I had things to do!” she protests, but even her own brain is working against her now, thudding away within her skull. She presses her hand against her eyes. “Important things!”

“More important than looking after yourself?” Grace questions. The Doctor doesn’t answer. What can she say to that? Especially when _Grace_ is the one asking.

“Well, since you’re here you can go take a nap now,” Graham says. “Go on. You can take your tea upstairs with you, the spare bedroom’s all fine to use.”

The Doctor scrunches up her face. “I’ll just use your sofa again. It’s very comfy.”

“Doctor, you’ve been on a long flight,” Grace argues, which just makes her roll her eyes. “You should sleep in a proper bed.”

“Yes, and besides, I can’t exactly watch _Call the Midwife_ if you’re snoozing in there, can I?” Graham adds, which proves to be a much more compelling argument.

“Oh – well, if you put it that way,” she mutters, scraping together the will to push herself up and out of her chair. She doesn’t feel like she’ll sleep, but if she goes up and just sits in that spare room, it’ll make _them_ feel better. They don’t need to know she intends to spend the next few hours on her phone. She picks up her tea off the table, and stands awkwardly for a moment, wondering if the other two are going to say anything, but when they don’t she just purses her lips and turns towards the door that leads to the living room.

“See ya, then,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Sleep well, cockle,” Graham says – and then she’s trudging up the stairs, over a well-worn carpet she’s trodden only a few times before. She doesn’t bother turning on the light in the bedroom once she reaches it, the door opening with a quiet creak. Her head is pounding quite a bit, actually, now that she thinks about it, and the low light is not unwelcome. There’s a niggling anxiety underneath it – a peculiar fear of the dark that she can neither explain or shake. When she’d first noticed it, she’d tried leaving doors open just so some light would spill through, but it never really helped – in fact, frequently it just unnerved her further, for whatever reason. The origins of it are long since lost to her head injury, and it’s pretty manageable, usually doing little more than unsettling her. Today, it barely does even that – clearly, she is too tired for her brain to be bothered with it.

No – _no,_ she’s not tired.

She’s just – she just can’t be bothered with being afraid right now in _general._ Clearly. Because that makes sense.

She’s not going to sleep.

Nope.

She crosses over to the bed, allowing herself to sit on it. Her aching muscles relax in relief, some of the tension loosening itself, and she closes her eyes against the headache. Still not sleeping. Just resting for a moment, whilst she gathers her thoughts together.

Yep. She’s going to pull her phone out of her pocket in a minute. Check her emails or something important. That’s a sensible idea.

She finds herself suddenly overcome by gravity, and lets herself fall back against the bed, lying on her side with her back to the open doorway, eyes still closed.

Well, she rationalises, there’s no reason why she can’t read her emails lying down, is there? In fact, it’s quite a good idea. More comfortable than hunching over her phone.

Speaking of which…she reaches for it, pulling it out of her slightly damp jeans pocket and bringing it up to her face, forcing her eyes open. It seems…very hard all of a sudden. She lets her phone drop from her hands, closing her eyes again with a sigh. Ok, so _maybe_ she is tired. But she doesn’t need to sleep. She’s just gonna lie here for a minute. With her eyes closed. Definitely awake…

She wakes up several hours later.

With a groan, she rolls over, opening her eyes blearily. From downstairs, she can hear the sound of clinking and chattering. As she listens, she picks out Yaz’s voice, along with Ryan’s, Graham’s and Grace’s. They must be eating dinner or something – Grace had said something about that, hadn’t she? Ugh. She doesn’t really know. What she _does_ know is that her body is trying to drag her back into unconsciousness again, and she’s _not_ having that.

She forces herself to sit up, reaching over for the bedside lamp. It turns on with a quiet _click,_ immediately bathing the room in a soft, yellow glow. The Doctor sighs, before reaching for her phone and settling herself against the headboard of the bed. Her internet access had been somewhat sporadic when she’d been in the States – which had been _part_ of the reason why she’d hardly messaged in the groupchat – and she’s dimly aware that she probably has a _lot_ of emails that need answering. Which, if she’s honest, might just send her right back to sleep if they’re boring enough. But with the light on, looking at a phone screen and a task to focus on, her brain is already beginning to kick into gear.

The inbox on her phone takes a couple of seconds to load, and in that moment, she considers – she could just go downstairs. Go and talk to the people who have become the closest thing to a _family_ to her, rather than hiding up here.

But then her emails open, and she sees most recent item.

 **From:** Oliver Dhawan **  
Subject:** Re. Re. Re. Re. A follow up of sorts

A smile cracks across her face, and she opens it immediately.

Oliver Dhawan – or ‘O’, as he likes to be called – had been her main source on a case she’d done several years ago after he’d whistle-blown on the extraction company he’d worked for as a technology consultant. They’d never actually met in person – at the time, O had been far too nervous about his employers finding out that he was exposing them, and after the case was over, he’d ended up moving to London or something. But they’d hit off really well, and kept in contact over email – and thus a rather long email chain had resulted that they’d kept going ever since. It had actually, in many ways, been extremely _useful,_ since their conversation had begun before the train crash. Whilst she hadn’t said _much_ to O about her life, especially her childhood, she _had_ told him a few things from her adult life which had helped her track down a few things. She remembers how strange it had been at first, to reread emails that she had no memory of typing. But after the first week, her friendship with O had been amongst the memories that had resurfaced – something she’s very grateful for. 

She wouldn’t have wanted to start from scratch.

Of course, they haven’t talked about that first case in a very long time. They talk about all sorts of other things now – life, the universe, memes he’d found, cases she’s investigating, projects he’s working on…anything, really. For the last year or so, he’s been working with this cutting-edge megacorporation called VOR, involved in developing new information and communication technology and software. It’s all pretty awesome to her – whilst she’s a journalist by trade, she’s also a dab hand at science, and isn’t too bad at engineering either. She’s not on O’s level – but only because she hasn’t _studied_ it as much as he has. She’s very smart, and she _knows_ it. If she wanted to be in his field, she could. She’s certain of it.

But she doesn’t want to.

Her work as a journalist is too important.

The email opens to a wall of text – his usual long reply. She can’t help but smile fondly, knowing that she’ll inevitably send one equally as long in response.

**From:** Oliver Dhawan **  
Subject:** Re. Re. Re. Re. A follow up of sorts

_Doctor,_

_First of all, so sorry that’s it been so long since your last email. Work’s been busy – they’ve got us started on a whole new project in streamlining an intelligent search engine, as if we weren’t already busy with everything else! You’d think that now I’m higher up in the department that I’d be able to give myself more free time, but no such luck. It’s probably my fault at least to some degree, though, as I’m not the most organised person. I’m not sure how well (or not) I’ve come across over email, but it’s important to me that you know my life is absolutely not under control. My house is full of piles and piles of notes that need sorting, all mixed up with issues of the Fortean Times amongst other things. So, in case you thought I was well put together and had my life in order, kindly consider that illusion shattered. That said, I get the feeling you understand the chaos I’m currently living in._

_Regarding what you actually said in your last email – I’m glad you enjoyed the fish! It was a friend of mine who found that website. It’s great, isn’t it? I believe it’s called ‘steganography’, but I expect you already knew that. I couldn’t quite solve the last one, so I’m pleased to see you managed it. I know you said you wouldn’t make me beg for the answers if I wanted to see them – but I have no sense of shame at this point, and I’m going to beg. Please? It has haunted me these last few weeks, and my pride has finally succumbed to my need for answers. Especially since you said when you figure out all the locations there’s an obvious pattern! And yes, it’s all very spy-ish, isn’t it? You’re not the only one who’s said my nickname sounds like a secret agent in a bad spy movie. But I promise I’ve got no secret identity! Just plain old me, I’m afraid. I’m definitely not cool enough for that._

_You said you might be doing a case in the States? Did you end up going? And can you tell me what you were investigating? Although, I suppose there might be a published article by now – if there is, send me a link, I’d love to read it. I’ve never actually been to the USA. It’s certainly an…interesting place. Not sure if I’d ever want to go or not. That said, there’s plenty of countries I’ve never been to – I’m nowhere near as well travelled as you are. I have been to Australia, though. Have you ever been there? Good people – and they have good chips over there, which is always a relief, even if they have some strange obsession with serving them with gravy. If you did end up going to the States, how did you manage to cope without custard creams? Or did you take a stash? So many questions – but in my defence, I’m a scientist. It’s in my nature!_

_There is something more serious I need to talk to you about, though. Unfortunately, it’s not really the sort of thing I can tell you over email or phone, I think. That sounds ominous – please don’t worry. But would you be able to meet in person? I know it’s a bit unorthodox for us (although maybe it’s about time we met face to face!), but I think that’s the only real option. It’s just not something I’d be able to explain well otherwise. But you remember how we first met, yes? Well, maybe you don’t. In which case, this will be a complete surprise for you – but if you do remember, it’s a similar sort of situation, I suppose. I’ll let you interpret that however you like. You’re still in Sheffield, right? I might be able to come to you – just let me know when you’re free. That said, I don’t even know if you’re in the country!_

_Bit of a strange note to end on, but I’ll leave it there for now. Hope everything is good on your end, and that the TARDIS is in working order._

_O_

The Doctor rereads the penultimate paragraph several times, her brow creasing with a frown. _How they first met._ Well, that one’s easy. His first contact with her had been an email in her inbox, full of information revealing how the company he was working for was corrupt down to the core. But he’s not worked with them for ages – hell, that corporation practically collapsed after her exposé. He works with VOR now. So…does he mean he needs to whistle-blow again? That’s he’s found something twisted within VOR?

She doesn’t find herself all too surprised. It happens far too often with large corporations like this, in her experience – at some point, someone at the top gets greedy, and then everything starts to degrade from within.

But before, he’d refused to meet with her in person, too afraid that they’d be seen and someone would put two and two together about what he was doing. At the time, she’d thought him a little paranoid – but then quickly understood when she’d discovered some of the other workers had actually _died_ over what was going on _._ But now…now he seems too scared to share it over the internet. Or over the phone. Is he worried that it’s not secure enough? But when she thinks about it, it makes sense. He’s working for a _communications technology_ corporation. If there’s anyone who could listen in to their workers revealing corporate crimes to freelance journalists, it’s them.

She minimises her emails, swiping to her apps menu and selecting WhatsApp. She has conversations with O on there too, albeit they use it a bit more sporadically than email. She selects his contact and presses down on the voice recorder at the bottom.

“Does this mean you’ve got yourself into trouble _again?_ ” she says, a grin tugging at her lips, but purposefully keeping her words vague. “I thought that was _my_ job! But yep, I’m back in Sheffield – just back, actually! You’ve got perfect timing. I’ll reply properly over email and all that, but I’m down to meet up.” A spark of excitement bursts in her chest at the thought. “I’ll get to see what you actually look like! That’ll be interesting. I don’t think I’ve got anything on at the moment, so just suggest whenever works for you and all that. Don’t know how soon you want to do it. Probably soon, I’m guessing? Soonish? Sooner rather than later? You get the idea. Let me know. Kisses!”

She releases her thumb and lets the message send before she can think better of it. Then sighs, leaning back against the headboard and pinching her nose, her mind buzzing.

 _Kisses._ Why the hell had she said that?

She tries to shove the thought under the metaphorical carpet and think about other things. Ok. So now she has…two cases. The disappearing homeless and the dead woman, and whatever O has discovered. And she’s pretty sure that however they end up developing, they’re both going to be _important…_ and _tricky._

But she can take it. That’s not what she’s worried about.

She’s more worried about how she’s going to need to scrape enough information together to apply for some kind of commission for both articles.

She groans at the mere thought of it. Finances are definitely the _least_ fun part of her job.

But she’ll sort it out later. For now –

She purses her lips, listening to the voices floating up to her from downstairs for a few moments. Egging herself up for it.

After a second or two, she swings her legs off the side of the bed.

For now, she is going to talk to her fam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you hadn't guessed already, this fic is basically going to be an au-version of Spyfall pt1 \o/ There'll be differences and similarities of course, but that's half the fun of it. I'm actually working on the Spyfall pt2 fic right now - I have no idea if it'll be done by the time I've finished posting this, but that is what I'm aiming for! 
> 
> Anyhow, hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think! I hope this chapter didn't read too much like an infodump, but alas, I needed to establish some au basics 
> 
> (and for those who only know nuwho - Peri is a companion of the Sixth Doctor and Braxiatel is the Doctor's brother!)


	4. Chapter Three

The kitchen is alive with activity when the Doctor reaches it, hovering in the doorway as she watches Graham load a pile of plates and cutlery into the dishwasher and Grace put an assortment of seasonings back in the cupboard. The lingering smell of whatever had been for dinner hangs in the air – Grace’s signature vegetarian curry, at a guess. She perfectly intends to hang back and soak in the atmosphere without drawing attention to herself, but Ryan and Yaz, who are sitting at the table still, immediately turn to look at her. Yaz’s brilliant smile is only outmatched by the one Ryan’s sports.

“Doctor!” he says, immediately getting up from his chair and almost falling over in his hurry. “You came back!”

“Of course, I did!” she grins back at him. “I always come back!”

And she knows it’s not true – there’s probably a longer string of places and people she’s left behind for good than she can remember. But Ryan’s already lost his mum and his biological grandfather, and then had his dad up and leave to boot. She recognises that look he gets sometimes – like he’s just waiting for people to leave. The idea that, one day, she’ll be another one on his list…

She swallows the thought back.

Ryan has gotten up from his chair now and moves to stand beside her, hovering a bit awkwardly like he’d like to hug her but knows she doesn’t like touching all that much. That’s another thing she’d figured out pretty quickly after the train crash – Grace had gently, but _firmly,_ taken hold of her arm in an attempt to get her to sit down once she’d realised the Doctor had near total amnesia. She hadn’t reacted well to it. From the memories that have come back to her, she can’t pinpoint anything in particular that would make her be so averse to it, so she supposes it’s just the way she’s always been. But every unexpected touch feels like a threat – suffocating, somehow, like it’s going to trap her. She finds it’s not so bad when _she_ is the one to initiate the touch, however.

It’s one of the stark differences between her and Ryan – and Grace. They both show affection so easily in gentle touches and hugs, a concept that seems so foreign to the Doctor. She almost wishes for it – for touch to not feel like lightning surging under her skin. But she can’t even imagine how it would be any other way.

She does feel a bit sorry for Ryan, though, who suddenly isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, and so she holds up her fist to him. His grin immediately returns, and he bumps his own fist against hers.

“Did you sleep well?” Yaz asks, leaning forward in her chair.

“Went straight out like a light,” she admits. “Surprised I woke up now, if I’m honest.”

“You’re probably hungry,” Ryan says. “That’s what always wakes me up.”

“I saved a portion for you if you want it, love,” Grace says.

She considers it for a moment, before her stomach makes the decision for her with a rumbling gurgle. Graham hoots with laughter.

“I think that was a _yes,_ Grace,” he says, getting another plate out of the cupboard as his wife immediately sets about reheating the remainder of the meal.

“Sit down then, Doctor,” Ryan says, already moving back over to his own chair. “I wanna hear about all the things you’ve already told everyone else.”

“What – oh, alright then,” she concedes, pulling out the chair in between him and Yaz and leaning her elbows on the table. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

She goes a little more in depth into her explanation this time around, telling them more about the _Kerblam!_ case and all the trouble she and Peri had managed to get into together. And then she explains the last twenty-four hours – how she’d arrived back in the UK and immediately hit the ground running with the new case. By the time she’s finished, she’s nearly eaten all of Grace’s curry, eagerly spooning mouthfuls in between talking.

“So who was that Ada person, anyway?” Yaz asks her as she pauses to scrape up the last of the rice. “She must have been something pretty special for you to offer her to look at the TARDIS.”

“Wait, wait,” Ryan says, his face a picture of shock. “She said she could look at the TARDIS? After knowing her for less than a day?”

“That’s exactly what I thought!” Yaz says.

“Hey!” the Doctor says. “I let people look at the TARDIS! Sometimes. If I trust them.” She shoves the rice in her mouth to punctuate her statement.

Graham scoffs at that. “Not really, cockle. It took you months to come around to Ryan looking at it.”

“Yeah, and that was after I begged you for ages about it.”

“And I’ve never seen you let anyone else look at it,” Yaz points out.

The Doctor makes a muffled sound of protest before she swallows. “I do sometimes!” It’s a lie, and they all know it. “Besides, Ada is brilliant. She’s an engineer – well, technically she’s a computer scientist, but she dabbles. Gets a bit of money from it, by the sounds of things. And she’s pretty good, from what I could tell.”

Ryan frowns. “How come she’s homeless then?”

The Doctor shrugs. “Why’s anyone homeless? Bad luck. Bad circumstances. Bad system. It can happen to anyone.” She finds that lot of people assume that anyone living on the street must have no skills or be lazy to get in that situation. That way, they think it won’t happen to them. That they’re safe. But all it takes is getting unemployed at the wrong time or hitting a rough spot and having no one to fall back on, and then they end up on the streets too. And suddenly they’re invisible.

She puts her spoon down on the plate with a loud clink, catching Grace and Graham nodding in agreement. For a moment no-one says anything, and she winces.

“Sorry. Bit of a conversation stopper, that one.” She purses her lips. “But I didn’t just give her my number so she could look at the TARDIS.”

She sees Yaz frown, figuring it out. “You wanted her to have it in case something happened again,” she says looking up at the Doctor and meeting her gaze. “In case those people came back for her.”

The Doctor nods. “Exactly, Yaz. If she saw them take that woman and they realise that, then she’ll be a prime target for them to take next.”

“D’you think that’s likely?” asks Ryan, his brow crinkled with concern.

The Doctor doesn’t really know the answer to that one. She doesn’t have enough information yet – she has no idea who these people are or _why_ they’ve been taking people. Until she knows that, she has no idea how ruthless they’d be about hunting down witnesses.

But she just shrugs, leaning back in her chair. “Nah, probably not. Figure if she was _really_ in trouble, they’d have got her already.” She wishes she believed herself.

“So it’s just in case, then?” Yaz says. “Better safe than sorry, sort of thing?”

“Something like that,” the Doctor says. “Besides, if she sees something else…I think she’s a bit more likely to call me than the police.” Her face scrunches apologetically. “No offence.”

But Yaz shrugs. “None taken. You’re probably right.”

The Doctor gives her a smile, before turning back to the others. “But enough about me! Tell me what you’ve all been up to! Besides Graham burning the broccoli.”

“Oi!” he protests, “who told you that!?”

“Sorry,” Yaz says, in a voice that says she isn’t sorry _at all._

“And the carrots,” Ryan reminds them. “Don’t forget those.”

“The rest of it was _perfect,_ ” Graham grumbles. “But none of you mention _that_.”

The conversation goes on for a while after that, until Yaz has to head back home. It’s around then that the Doctor tries to take her chance at escaping back to the TARDIS, only for Grace and Graham to intervene, stating quite clearly that she is _not_ spending the night in a cold van when there’s a perfectly good bed available. Her argument that she needs to go back to her van to get her _stuff_ is only met with the offer of Grace taking her in the car to go and get it – an offer that she can’t really refuse, because, well, she _does_ need her stuff and the TARDIS is parked a reasonably long walk away. Unfortunately, whilst someone like Yaz _may_ have been persuaded to let her just stay by herself in the TARDIS, Grace absolutely won’t allow it. Because whilst that woman is the kindest person the Doctor has ever had the honour of knowing, she also takes absolutely no nonsense – _especially_ from her.

Car journeys are also high in _important-and/or-serious-discussion_ potential, which she actively tries to avoid at any cost. And so, when Grace starts talking after a few minutes of treacherous silence, she can’t help but sink slightly lower into her seat.

“You can be honest with me,” Grace begins, “What’s the real reason you didn’t message us the whole time you were away?”

The question is pointed, but not unkind. The Doctor sighs, staring out the window at the streets rolling past them. The rain has finally stopped, but there’s still droplets on the windows that ignite with gold every time they pass a streetlight.

“I told you. I was just really busy,” she says, and she can’t quite keep the sheepish guilt out of her tone. “You know how I get when I’m in the zone. That, and I didn’t have internet a lot of the time.”

“Mmhm,” Grace says, clearly not convinced. “And when you did have internet, you didn’t check your phone at all?”

She lets her head fall back against the headrest. She finds she can’t lie. “No. I did look.”

She hears Grace exhale. “Why didn’t you say something, love? Just anything, so we knew you were alright? Or that you were coming back soon?”

“I don’t know,” she says – only she _does,_ she just has no idea how to say it. “I just – I didn’t know what to say. And I sort of thought –”

She breaks off, closing her eyes. Oh, how she _hates_ conversation like this.

“I can’t really explain it,” she tells Grace, hoping maybe that’ll be good enough.

“Can you try for me?” Grace says – because of course she does.

The Doctor opens her eyes, but doesn’t say anything, hoping maybe that Grace will try and fill the silence. But she doesn’t – she just glances at her briefly before looking back to the road. The Doctor sighs.

“I guess I just…I put it off. Replying, I mean. And then the longer I left it the harder it was and –” she breaks off, screwing up her face. “I guess I just figured you guys would stop worrying about me after a while.”

“You mean you think we’d stop caring about you?”

“Most people do at some point,” she mutters bitterly. She doesn’t even remember all the times people have gotten tired of her and passed her on to someone else.

“Well, we’re not most people,” Grace tells her, and the Doctor can’t help but be glad that Grace doesn’t try and tell her she’s wrong, or just delusional. “Neither me nor Graham and going to stop caring about you, and Ryan and Yaz won’t either.”

“I know that…” she says. “I do. And I won’t stop caring about _you_ guys either.” Her nose scrunches. “Well, unless I lose my memory again.” The disclaimer she has to add on to every promise these days.

Grace hums at that, amused. “I know, love. Just don’t go banging your head again.”

“It’s not like it was my idea the first time!” she protests, but she can’t help but smile. The anxiety that had begun clutching at her chest begins to loosen its grip. “Can’t make no promises. I do _try_ and avoid head injuries though. As a rule.”

Grace laughs softly at that. “Don’t we all.”

The Doctor manages a smile, and from then they lapse into a comfortable silence until they reach the road where a very familiar blue campervan comes into the beam of Grace’s headlights.

“ _Finally,_ ” the Doctor says, already unclipping her seatbelt. Grace brings the car to a halt, and the Doctor doesn’t make any hesitation before hopping out and heading straight for the vehicle.

“Wait, Doctor,” Grace says, leaning over to speak through the open door. “Are you going to just take a few things and put them in t' car, or –?”

“I was thinking of just driving her to your place,” she finishes, resting her hand on the door affectionately. “There were spaces outside your house. Means we don’t have to come all the way over here again, and I can just take everything.”

“Alright…” Grace agrees, but there’s a cautionary tone in her voice. The Doctor understands it immediately.

“I’ll drive first, you can follow me. Make sure I don’t just drive off,” she says with a tight smile.

Grace laughs a little at that. “Actually, I were more worried about you driving on about 2 and a half hours sleep.”

Oh.

Ok, maybe she _hadn’t_ understood it.

She waves a hand. “Eh, I’ve driven on less before and been fine.”

“That’s not as comforting as you think it is, love,” Grace replies. “I thought we were avoiding head injuries?”

The Doctor rolls her eyes, yanking her keys out of her pocket and jamming them in the hole, before pulling the door open and jumping up into the driver’s seat. “It’ll be fine! Promise! It’s not like it’s that far.” She pulls the door shut before the woman can try and talk her out of it, gently running her hand along the steering wheel with a certain reverence, before twisting her keys into the ignition. The TARDIS wheezes into life, and she pulls the window open so she can stick her hand out, giving Grace a thumbs up. The other car reverses after a moment, and when she has enough space to manoeuvre, she pulls the campervan out of the parking space and onto the road. She can’t help but sigh a little.

It is _good_ to be back behind a familiar wheel again.

She’s had the TARDIS since she aged out of the foster care system at 18, and it’s been her oldest and most reliable friend ever since. Even when everything else had fallen through, the TARDIS had been there, a comfort and the closest thing she had to call a _home._ It’s her most loved possession, followed closely by the leather jacket she’s currently wearing, which sports a couple of embroidered space patches over her right collarbone. The TARDIS has a couple of personalised touches too – a couple of yellow star stickers stuck onto the side. She doesn’t quite remember if she was the one to add the stickers, or if that had been someone else’s handiwork. But in the end, she supposes it doesn’t matter. The TARDIS is hers, exactly as it is, and that’s all she really cares about.

Despite Grace’s concerns, she manages to make it back to the house without crashing or falling asleep at the wheel, which the Doctor considers to be an all-round success. She immediately reaches into the back for her bag, only to realise she’d sort of deposited all the stuff she’d taken to America around everywhere when she’d got back to the TARDIS the previous night, and her bag is somewhat buried. Buried, and full of lots of things she doesn’t actually need. And that’s how Grace finds her once she’s pulled the car into the next parking space along and poked her head into the open driver’s door.

“Doctor?” she asks, clearly finding the image of her leaning over the front seats, bum in the air as she riffles through her stuff, somewhat amusing.

“Just looking for what I need!” she replies, finally finding her bag and beginning to pull dirty clothes out of it. Of course, her pyjamas _would_ be right at the bottom, wouldn’t they?

“Do you need any of that put in the wash?” Grace offers. The Doctor can’t help but wince – oh, she hates the idea of not being independent, but one of the downsides of living out of a van is no easily accessible washing machine.

She supposes, if she thinks about it, she’s only a few steps removed from Ada’s situation. She has the TARDIS, and she has a somewhat steady source of income, but – well. Technically she’s homeless, isn’t she?

She doesn’t really feel like their situations compare, though.

As much as she’s been a dunce about it, she does have people like Grace and Graham who help her out when she needs it. Whereas Ada…well, from the sounds of things, she didn’t really have anyone at all who could help her.

“Just a few things, if you don’t mind,” she accepts after a moment – because at least this way she doesn’t have to pay to use the laundrette. And she does know how to be humble and accept help. On occasion. “Although most of it is fine – I used Peri’s machine before I left.” She pauses for a moment. “Wouldn’t mind using your shower tonight though, if you don’t mind?”

Grace gives a huff of amusement. “You’ve used it plenty of times before, Doctor.”

“I know, but it’s polite to ask!” she retorts. She hunts around for the last few things – her wash kit, a pen and the book she’s rereading – and quickly stuffs it into her bag before pulling it onto her lap and shimmying out of the cabin, hopping out onto the pavement beside Grace and pushing the door shut. She flashes the woman a grin. “There! I’ll sort out the clothes tomorrow – you aren’t gonna do that wash right now, are you?”

“Not right now, no,” Grace says, before taking a step towards the house. “Come on, then. How are you feeling? Still tired?”

The Doctor manages to bite back the retort of _I’m always tired_ that threatens to tumble off her tongue. “Ehh. I’ll be fine –” she falters, catching a good glimpse of Grace’s eyebrows raising, illuminated in the golden glow of the street lights. “Ugh. Yeah ok, you’re right and I know it. I’ll try and sleep again. If I don’t, I’m gonna get all out of sync.”

Grace hums approvingly as they head up the patio steps. “Do you need anything else?”

“Hm. Got pjs, toothbrush and toothpaste...should be fine.”

“Want a drink or anything?” she asks as she slots the key into the door and lets them inside.

“I’m alright.” She points her thumb up a couple of times. “I’ll probably head straight to bed.”

“You’re what?” comes Graham’s voice from the sitting room. “Did I hear that right? You’re willingly going to bed?”

“Oi!” she calls back as she hears Grace chuckling behind her, shutting the front door with a click. “It’s been known to happen!” She leans in through the doorframe as she pulls off her shoes, finding Graham on the sofa, the tv on. “I did it earlier, didn’t I?”

“Only because we made you!” he corrects, flashing her a grin. “Go on then! Off with ya! Before you change your mind!”

The Doctor rolls her eyes fondly, before heading upstairs, bag in hand. She hears Grace move into the sitting room as she reaches the landing, the tones of her voice as she talks with her husband reaching her ears, but not the precise words. She doesn’t mind – she’s heading straight for the spare room anyway.

She turns on the lamp and tosses her bag on her bed, where it lands with a satisfying _thump._ She’s just pulling a few things out of it when she hears the sound of familiar, faltering footsteps in the hall. She looks over her shoulder to find Ryan standing in the doorway, his hands held awkwardly behind his back. She frowns, straightening and giving him a confused smile.

“Are you trying to hide something from me?” she asks, not one for pussyfooting around.

“Uh,” Ryan says. “No?”

She gives him a look, and a sheepish grin spreads across his face.

“Ok yeah, yeah I am, it’s just –” He pulls out the small parcel that he’d tucked behind his back, holding it out to her. It’s wrapped in red paper, decorated with silvery snowflakes. “Well, you missed Christmas and all, so…I didn’t get to give you this.”

Her jaw drops in surprise. “Oh! Ryan, you didn’t have to! I didn’t –”

– get any of them _anything,_ even though she’d been in another country and could _easily_ have grabbed just a little something for them, even running on a tight budget –

“No, no, it’s ok!” Ryan assures. “I didn’t get it to make you feel like you had to get something for us. It’s just because I wanted to get you something.”

She can’t help but smile, even as she swallows back the guilt. She’s felt so much guilt today, and it’s all sitting like lead in her gut. But this…this is so kind. “Aw, Ryan…”

He smiles right back. “Go on, take it then!”

She grins, and takes it, moving back to sit on the bed. She pats the duvet next to her, and he comes to sit alongside her as she tears through the wrapping. Inside, she finds the back cover of a paperback book, which she flips over to reveal –

 _Ender’s Game,_ by Orson Scott Card.

She cackles at the sight of it, immediately reaching into her bag for the book she’d grabbed from the TARDIS – _Speaker for the Dead,_ also by Orson Scott Card.

“Ryan, that’s _brilliant,_ ” she says. “How did you know I didn’t have the first one?”

He breathes out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I _didn’t_ – just a lucky guess, I suppose. It’s just I’ve seen you reading that one a lot, so I figured I’d look it up, see if there were any others. And – well, I thought reading the sequel before you read the first one was the sort of thing you would do.”

She can’t help but grin at that. “You’re right. I did read the second one first. I _have_ read Ender’s Game though…I think? Yeah, I have. No idea what happened to my copy though, if I ever had one of my own. Might have borrowed it from someone, I suppose.” She hums. Her past, as always, is a matter of debate. “I do remember reading it though. It’s a good one. The sequel is my favourite though.”

Ryan nods. “Well, now you can read the first one again.”

“That I can!” She elbows him playfully. “Thanks, Ryan. You really didn’t have to get me anything.”

He shrugs. “Like I said. I wanted to. Besides, I sorta wanted to ask you what you liked about it.”

She frowns. “What? _Speaker for the Dead?”_

“Yeah. It’s just that I looked up the plot summary –”

Again, she cackles. “Oh boy. Yep, I’ll grant you, it’s a bit weird. And rather graphic.”

“A bit, yeah,” he says. “Not that that’s bad or anything, I’m just…”

“Curious as to why I’d read something like that more than once?”

“Well, yeah.”

She hums. “Well…I guess it’s just the concept. Of Speakers for the Dead, I mean.” She runs a thumb over the well-worn cover of the sequel. “Because they’re people who come to funerals and recount the entire life story of the deceased, right? Completely unbiased – they reveal everything, good and bad. Beautiful and ugly. Just _truth._ I like the idea. That act of pouring over information, of pulling the truth out of so many different perspectives, and bringing it all together to make it all make sense...” She smiles. “I guess it’s no real surprise why I’d like that sort of thing.”

Ryan considers it for a moment. “Yeah, right. I reckon that makes sense.”

She nods, hesitating, before slipping the sequel underneath the first book, admiring her present. The cover is a bit worn around the edges on this copy too – the spine broken. Probably second hand, but she doesn’t mind at all. It makes sense – Ryan doesn’t earn all that much, she knows. It makes the fact that he went to the effort to get her something even more special.

“The first one’s a bit different,” she explains. “It’s more about the first Speaker for the Dead before he became that – when he was just a child, and thought he was in control of his life. Thought he knew what was real and what wasn’t.” She pauses for a moment. “But he didn’t. Not in the end.” She glances at him. “You should read them, if you want. I’ll let you borrow them.”

“Hm, maybe,” Ryan says, not entirely convinced – but not unconvinced either.

“Offer’s there, if you decide you do,” she says.

He nods a couple of times, before abruptly pushing himself off the bed. “Alright. I, uh. Should let you get some sleep.”

“Why’s everyone telling me to sleep today?” she grumbles good-naturedly. “Have I got a note on my back or something?”

Ryan laughs. “Nah mate, you just look like you’re about to keel over any second.” He pauses by the door for a moment. “It’s good to have you back, Doctor.”

And there’s that look in his eyes. That one she recognises in herself, sometimes.

 _Thank you for coming back,_ it says. _Thank you for not leaving me behind._

“It’s good to be back,” she replies, meeting his gaze. He smiles, and then moves out into the corridor.

“Night, then!” he says over his shoulder.

“Night!” she replies, looking down at the books in her hands for a moment, considering them both, before she places them on the bedside table and begins to get ready for bed.

She’s sitting cross-legged in her pyjamas on the duvet, hair wet from the shower, by the time she thinks to check her phone again. There’s still a bunch of unanswered notifications from earlier, which she decides can be ignored for a few hours longer, but a WhatsApp notification catches her attention.

It’s from O.

She clicks on it, revealing his written reply to her earlier voice message:

**O!  
** _Thought I’d shake things up a bit. If it was only  
you getting into trouble, my life would be so  
boring.  
  
_ **O!**  
_About meeting up…is tomorrow too soon?  
I could do around 11am…  
  
_ **O!  
** _I’ll let you know where if you can make it.  
It’ll be somewhere in Sheffield. Let me know!_

She considers it for a moment, before typing a response and hitting send.

**The Doctor  
** _Tomorrow’s great! :)_

And with that, she drops her phone on the bedside table beside the books, and turns the lamp off with a click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally nothing of importance happens in this chapter SORRY (other than FINALLY seeing the TARDIS WHOOP) but I promise the plot begins to start up next time. Also, can you tell that I love Ryan and the Doctor so much? They’re my favourite dorks
> 
> As a fun disclaimer – I have literally never read ANYTHING by Orson Scott Card, but I did read the plot summary for Speaker for the Dead on wikipedia several years ago and it left enough of an impact on me that when I was character building for this au, roads!thirteen was like ‘hey you know what my favourite book is’ and I was like ‘don’t say it’s the one with the pig aliens who disembowel people’ and she was like ‘it’s the one with the pig aliens who disembowel people!!’ ......sigh.......but for real, the plot is wild, go check it out. My justification for that entire scene is it’s thematically appropriate if you squint, and also I wanna cash in on the reference so far down the line that y’all will probably have forgotten about it HAHA. Also my beta didn’t tell me to take it out so I cannot be held responsible
> 
> ANYWAY. Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter Four

The weather is good when she wakes up the next morning – cold, a little blustery, but the winter sun is out and the sky is full of a scattering of cotton-ball clouds. The Doctor considers the day ahead of her briefly, pondering the chances of needing to start running at full pelt without warning. It’s quite a common occurrence for her, especially when she’s working on a case, but she decides today is probably _not_ going to be one of those days, so she pulls on her binder before slipping her favourite shirt – maroon with a desaturated rainbow stripe – over the top and grabbing her jacket from where she’s dropped it onto the floor the previous night. She catches a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror, and she can’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction at the flatness of her chest.

“Bring it on,” she can’t help but mutter to herself.

She hadn’t set herself an alarm and so jet-lag had taken the reins, meaning it’s nearly 10am by the time she gets downstairs to grab some breakfast. Which means by the time she needs to leave to go and meet O, she hasn’t had much time to do anything other than take a quick look at the news on her phone and reluctantly check all the messages she’d avoided yesterday. Ryan’s already gone off to work, and Grace has a morning shift at the hospital, but she does manage to catch Graham before she disappears out the door.

“Just going to meet a friend,” she tells him cheerily. “Don’t have too much fun without me!”

“What?” Graham says, looking at her in mischievous faux shock. “You’ve got friends other than us?!”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “Shut up.”

“Never,” he replies with a grin. “Don’t stay out too late!”

“You’re not my father!” she parries with amusement – it’s a joke they’ve made so many times before that it’s practically tradition now.

“I might as well be!” he replies. “Go on, then. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Bye then,” she says, stepping out and closing the door behind her, a smile on her face.

She decides against taking the TARDIS, since the centre of Sheffield isn’t too far – just a couple minutes down the road, then that’ll take her down past Park Hill, where Yaz lives, then down past the station and she’s practically splat-bang in the middle of town. O had suggested a small coffee shop for their meet up, but the Doctor has the feeling that they won’t end up staying there. Based on how he’d been in that first case they’d worked on together, and how he’s acting now, she thinks it’s safe to say he’s a little paranoid.

Then again, maybe he has good reason to be.

Maybe _she’d_ be more paranoid if she didn’t get a kick out of ruffling the worst kind of feathers.

It doesn’t take her long at all to find the café, about a five-or-so-minute walk away from the station. It’s tucked into a little side street, which in her experience are always the best places to find little indie shops that serve really good tea. Or hot chocolate, topped with a mountain of marshmallows and cream, which is what she’s got her heart set on today.

She heads right up to the counter and makes her order, before glancing around. There’s a couple of other patrons, most chattering idly about the weather, but there’s only one sitting alone. A man, with brown skin and dark hair, wearing a beige coat and a soft green jumper. He’s already looking at her, tapping a rhythmic pattern on the table like some kind of nervous tic. The rhythm hesitates for a moment as her eyes meet his, a strange expression flashing across his face – but then he gives her a smile followed by a shy little wave. She can’t help but wave back with a grin.

O.

It’s so strange to see him for the first time after feeling like she’s known him for so long. And it isn’t like she hadn’t _tried_ looking for photos of him, but his social media accounts were somewhat sparse. At first, it had struck her as somewhat suspicious – in this day and age, who managed to have _no_ photos taken of them? Even by other people? But then he’d proven himself on the case, his information invaluable and, more importantly, reliable. And, well, since then she’d gotten to know him and come to realise that he isn’t exactly the most social of creatures. He has a tendency to bury himself in his work over socialising with friends or co-workers – something he’s taken a lot of teasing for, in his time, but he’s assured her that he’s pretty used to it by now. He says he just likes to keep himself to himself, and that science tends to be far more interesting to him than talking about nothing down the pub. That, she supposes, she can understand. She’s been called a workaholic plenty of times before.

_But it’s important,_ she’s always said. _How can you expect me to sit and do nothing when people are getting hurt?_

“Hot chocolate,” says the barista, snapping her out of her thoughts. She thanks them, grabbing her cup off the counter and making a beeline to the table O is sitting at.

“The Doctor, I presume?” he says, his eyes bright with amusement.

“The very same,” she replies, taking the seat opposite him. She takes the lid off her hot chocolate and sticks her fingers in the cream and marshmallows before she can really think about what’s she’s doing. She hesitates, then hears O laugh softly under his breath.

“Well, that’s something of a first impression,” he quips.

She smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, well, I figure by this point you know how much of a mess I am.” And with that, she pops the marshmallow between her fingers into her mouth and flashes him a grin. He shakes his head, looking for all the world like he’s _endeared_ at her antics. 

“That’s true, I suppose,” he agrees, before holding up his hands. “And I mean that in the best way.”

She waves a hand at him, even as she swallows her embarrassment. “I know you do.” She leans back in the chair, hoping she comes off as somewhat more confident than she feels. “So. You wanna jump straight into things?”

She expects him to call her out on skipping right past the small talk – everyone else usually does. But O just purses his lips, looking down at his own takeaway coffee cup for a moment before meeting her gaze.

“Not here,” is all he says, before glancing around and then getting to his feet, grabbing the shoulder bag that had been tucked under the table. The Doctor sits up again, picking up her own drink.

“Alright then,” she says, watching him curiously. His eyes are still darting around the room. She stands. “Lead the way.”

He nods, before heading straight out the shop. She follows him out, taking a sip of her drink and wondering what to make of him. She thinks she can see in him the man she’s grown to know through their correspondence, in his soft-spoken words and unassuming presence. But there’s something else running in an undercurrent. A kind of nervousness, almost like he’s on some kind of hair trigger. She can’t help but wonder what on earth he’s afraid of.

What did he find at VOR?

“Aren’t you cold in just that jacket?” he asks her, breaking her out of her thoughts. His brow is furrowed with gentle concern. She just shrugs.

“Nah, I’m alright. Used to it. I don’t really like wearing anything else,” she explains. His eyebrows raise.

“Ahh,” he says, “so this is the famed jacket you told me about ages ago?”

She grins broadly at him. “Yep! Good, isn’t it? Look!” She shows him the patches on the right side, and he smiles.

“I love it,” he says genuinely. “I’m honoured to finally see it in person.”

She huffs a laugh. “I’m sure it would be honoured to meet you too, if it was sentient.”

A small smile cracks across his face. “Don’t suppose you’ve got the TARDIS parked nearby too?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, she’s parked outside my mates’ place. Next time, maybe.” She glances at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. “That is, assuming there’ll be a next time?”

He meets her gaze. “Well, I’d certainly hope so,” he says, before patting his bag. “I guess it depends on all this.”

She hums, wondering if he thinks she’s going to get scared away when he tells her, or if he thinks telling her will get him shot or something ridiculous. “I guess it does.”

He leads them through town, over a bridge and down into a small park. She half expects him to keep on walking down the path, but he stops at a bench not that far in and takes a seat, leaving plenty of room for her. She sits down beside him, tucking one leg under her and curling her hands around her hot chocolate for warmth. She watches with intrigue as he puts his coffee cup on the bench and then pulls his bag onto his lap, fiddling with the clasp. He hesitates for a moment.

“You are _sure_ about this, aren’t you?” he asks. She cocks her head, giving him a pointed look.

“Whatever made you think I _wouldn’t_ be sure? Of course I am.” She flashes him a smile, unable to keep her excitement out of it. “You’re not gonna scare me off with this, O. I promise.”

He manages a smile back, nodding, his hands still lingering on his bag. “Yeah yeah, I know…”

She frowns at him. “Come on. It can’t be worse than last time, right?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Ok then, it can be,” she corrects, beginning to be a little unnerved by the sheer amount of anxiety that’s radiating off her friend. “But I’m not afraid, O. This is what I do.”

“I think you should be afraid,” he says, his eyes meeting hers with a piercing gaze. It makes her pause, something strange and unfamiliar stirring in her chest. There’s something about his eyes that she _knows,_ but she can’t – she can’t quite put her finger on it…

Maybe it’s the fear.

She’s not exactly a stranger to that one.

“Maybe I should,” she says, keeping her eyes fixed on him. “I probably will be. But you know what? Fear’s not a bad thing, I reckon. Fear keeps you smart, keeps you fast. Keeps you _alive._ And fear’s brought you here to me, right? Because you know I can help – you know I can do something about whatever you’re going to show me.” She gives him a reassuring smile. “But I can’t help unless you show me. I promise I won’t run off, O. I won’t leave you with this alone.”

A strong promise, coming from the person who left her surrogate family for a whole month without a word. But she means it. It’s a promise she’s made before. A promise she made to _herself_ when she chose to use ‘the Doctor’ as her penname – as her _name,_ over the one she was left with at the side of the road.

O holds her gaze for a moment, his throat bobbing. Then he nods.

“I know you won’t,” he says, glancing away. Then he lets out a breath, composing himself. “Alright. No turning back then.”

“Bring it on,” she says, unable to help the grin that spreads across her face.

Oh, how she can’t help but _love_ this part. The start of the case – the discovery of something awful that she knows she’s going to be the one to fix.

The only thing that beats it is when the case begins to come together – when she pulls all the pieces together and watches as the _truth_ begins to emerge.

O opens his bag, and pulls out a manila folder, and she can’t help but smile at the mundaneness of it. He probably stole it from his office. And, most certainly, it holds terrible, _terrible_ secrets.

“How much do you know about VOR?” he prefaces, tapping on the folder, that rhythmic tic again. “As a company, I mean.”

She frowns. “Well, they’re a technology megacorporation. It’s a search engine, but they’ve also got stuff to do with web apps, global mapping…advertising. Some scientific and medical research too. Cutting-edge communication technology. It’s what Google would have been if they hadn’t collapsed back in 2007.”

O smiles at that. “Yes, pretty much. It’s, arguably, more powerful than most nations, with the amount of connections it has and the number of governments and international agencies who outsource their technology needs to it. VOR has seeped into every corner of modern technology…” He glances at her, expression dark. “And Barton wants to push it even further.”

She takes a sip of her drink, frowning. “Barton?”

“He’s the head of VOR, the founder,” he says. “My boss. He’s usually off in his headquarters in San Francisco, but more recently he’s been at the Research & Development HQ in Manchester. Where I’ve been working for the last few months.”

She frowns at him, a little amused. “I didn’t know you were in Manchester these days.”

“Oh, didn’t I say that I’d moved?” he says, looking genuinely sheepish. “Sorry. Thought I’d mentioned it.” 

She waves a hand at him. “Not important. Keep going then. Why’s he keep coming to R&D? What’s he so interested in?”

“He’s…begun investing in a new research project for experimental technology,” O says. “And I mean _really_ experimental. You said it already – VOR is already within the science and medical research field. They’re now…trying to combine that. With their communications technology.”

She stares at him. “What are you saying? Are they – they’re trying to create some kind of biological interface? Embedded technology?”

“I believe the crude term is _biohacking,_ ” O tells her. “It’s something that’s been attempted before by plenty of individuals – bridging the gap between their own biology and the technology they’re using every day. Trying to make their lives more convenient, more _advanced_. But it’s very experimental, and fraught with risks.”

She frowns. “Which is why it’s always been done by individuals before. Outliers. But this…this is on a _corporation_ scale.”

“Yes. Which, I suppose, in and of itself isn’t so bad,” he says, with a shrug. “But what he’s doing with it…he talks about how it’s going to enhance human potential – how it’s going to make us so much _better._ He’s obsessed with it – a fanatic, almost. Desperate for the _betterment_ of humanity through _his_ genius. And…” he pauses, looking down at the folder in his hands. “He doesn’t care how he does it.”

She stares at him for a moment, considering the implications of what he’s trying to tell her. “O…is he authorising experiments on _people?”_

He doesn’t answer her, instead opening the folder and bringing out some files. “Here. Look at these.”

She frowns, putting her drink down beside her so she can take the papers. She glances over them quickly – they’re forms of some kind. Scanned copies, not the originals. Complete with names, addresses, biological information, and then a bunch of legal-looking text about corporate responsibility, a non-disclosure agreement and a bunch of other jargon that goes somewhat over her head. One line in particular, however, catches her attention:

_By signing the form below, you waive the right to sue the VOR corporation or any of its subsidiaries and holdings in the event of injuries sustained during the courses of the trials._

She looks back at O, alarmed. “These are consent forms?”

“Yes,” he says. “For a variety of _trials,_ which include…” He pauses. “Being directly interfaced with invasive technology.”

She swallows, glancing back at the consent forms. Of course, they are all signed. “They have consent. They’ve covered their backs legally.”

O frowns, suddenly looking unsure. “Does that mean…there’s nothing you can do?”

She gives a dry laugh, completely devoid of humour. “Oh no, there’s a _lot_ I can do. No matter how you word it, _human experimentation_ never sounds good. Especially if it’s…invasive. And I think it’s quite possible that the consent isn’t as _informed_ as it should be.” She flicks a glance at him. “If I can get more information, I can definitely make a noise about it. Do you know _precisely_ what they’re doing in these experiments?”

“I’ve only just been put on the project…but I know enough,” he says – and he looks sick. She nods grimly.

“Ok,” she says, mind already racing at the things she needs to start looking into, the information she needs to gather. “I need you to tell me. As much as you know.”

“I will, but –” he falters, pulling more papers out of the folder. “There’s more.”

She passes the consent forms back, taking the new ones in their place. She frowns.

“What am I looking at?”

“That’s…communications with VOR’s legal team,” he says. “Got them off the server. A little illegal, but…it’s correspondence. About the fact twenty of the thirty subjects involved in their…trials, so far…are now deceased.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide. “They _died?_ ”

O nods. “Yes.”

She blinks, aghast. “How long has this been going on?” She turns it over in her head. _Twenty people dead._ “How has no-one noticed? These people have got to have family…?”

“I don’t know,” O says, shaking his head. “I genuinely don’t know. I wondered if maybe they were paying people off to keep quiet.”

“Or threatening them,” she murmurs darkly. She holds up the papers. “Can I keep these? And those forms?”

“You can keep all of it,” he says, offering her the folder. She takes it, slipping the legal correspondence back inside and flicking through the rest of the contents as he continues. “There are a few other things in there…lab reports from the trials, for example. That should give you some of an idea of what they’ve been doing.”

“Have you got any images?” she asks. “Or footage?”

O frowns, shaking his head. “No…sorry. I don’t have access to most of the files yet. The only reason I found out what they were doing is because Barton wants to bring me in on the project, so he showed me the lower labs.”

She hums. “Don’t worry. At some point, I’d like to try and get something.” Ryan, certainly, will be able to help her with that, if she can get them both into the facility. She’d realised back in the first few weeks after the train crash that he was pretty nifty with video and editing. He’d said it was something he wanted to get more practice with – something about finding it easier to use video than words to express himself. She’d been intrigued, being more one for the written word, but knowing all too well the power of photos and videos in her line of work. People don’t always like to read, and often misinterpret or cast aside a lengthy, in-depth article. But an image…

Well. An image can stay in someone’s mind for a _very_ long time.

“To do that, you’ll need to get inside VOR,” O says, “and I doubt Barton is going to be happy about letting a journalist wander around. Especially with a camera.”

“He might – if he thinks we’re on his side,” she says, a smile beginning to spread across her face as a plan begins to form. “I can say I’m interested in his technology –”

“He’s not going to believe that if he looks at your portfolio,” O says. “And he will.”

“Hmph, yeah that’s a point,” she mutters, smile dropping off her face and scrunching into a picture of displeasure. 

“Unless you say you’re investigating different online platforms’ responses to a common issue. Cyberbullying, or something. Or even hacking.” O glances at her, raising his eyebrows. “Then perhaps he’ll see it as an opportunity to make VOR look better than its competitors.”

Her smile broadens into a grin. “That’s fantastic! That might just work! Oh, but then –” she frowns, thinking. “There’s a chance he’ll give us a rudimentary tour, but there’s no way he’s going to let us see what he’s hiding in the basement. So we interview him still, because I want to get a sense for him – but we’re going to need a way to get inside without him being there as well. Without anyone being able to interfere.” She fixes her gaze on him. “Can you do that? Get me in?”

O purses his lips, barely-concealed anxiety darting across his face. “I could. If…” He frowns, then looks at her. “I have an access card, but it doesn’t get me in everywhere – at least, not everywhere you want to get. But…I _might_ be able to open it up and tweak it just a little.”

She smiles at him, impressed. “You could really do that?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Well, computers and technology _are_ my area of expertise. And I know VOR technology well – if anyone can do it, it’s probably going to be me.”

Her smile only widens, nodding. “Ok – so we go in during the day, I ask questions, act like a normal journalist, get a lay of the land. Then, we go back at night and see what’s _really_ going on.” It sounds like something of a plan – or, rather, as much as a plan as she ever has. She does have a bit of a tendency to go in to these sorts of things with the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.

Beside her, even O is managing a smile. “That could just about work – providing nothing goes wrong, of course.”

She can’t help but laugh at that, leaning back against the bench. “Oh, something _always_ goes wrong, you can count on that! But that’s half the fun of it, don’tcha think?”

O looks a little uncertain, leaning forward, but when he glances her way, the skin around his eyes crinkles with amusement. “Well, I suppose it does keep things more interesting.”

“That’s the spirit!” she says, closing the folder on her lap and reaching around for her hot chocolate, which is beginning to lose its warmth. She takes a drink of it as she considers what needs to happen next. “Ok then – when do you think we’ll be able to do this?”

O taps his leg as he thinks. It’s the same pattern, she notices. Four taps, and then two beats silence. She wonders if he has a song stuck in his head or something, but if he does, it isn’t one she knows.

“I think I should try and get a duplicate of my card,” he muses aloud. “Just in case. I can do that easily – I just need to pretend I lost my first one, which won’t be too hard. The cards have GPS location chips embedded in them, so if I scramble it, they won’t be able to find it on the computers, and they’ll have to issue me a new one. That’ll take a day or so to process. Then, well. I suppose it depends on Barton’s diary, and whether he accepts your interview.”

She nods. “A couple of days works. Gives me time to read into all this and do some more digging.” She gives the folder a pat for emphasis. Her brain is already swirling with things she wants to look into further – she’s going to be _busy,_ for sure. “Then I can drive up in the TARDIS. Bring the fam along, if any of them are free.”

_Or if any of them still want to come with you_ , part of her thinks, shame and guilt twisting in her chest. But she shoves the thought aside, focusing instead on the way O smiles softly at her nickname for the others.

“You can all stay at my place, if you like,” he offers.

She beams at him. “That would be amazing! If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Wouldn’t have offered it if I did. It’s messy, and not the biggest, but if one of you sleeps on the sofa, and some of you don’t mind sharing the spare bed…” He frowns. “There’s three of you, right?”

She winces. “Well, technically there’s _five_ of us – but they might be working.” She shrugs. “I could always sleep in the TARDIS, if there’s no room. Or take the floor.”

He nods, giving her a smile. “No problem.”

And there it is again – the look in his eyes that she can’t quite name, catching on something in her chest like a spark. But then it’s gone again, as fast as it came, and she’s left fumbling blindly inside herself, hands finding nothing in the dark.

She smiles back at him, and then takes another drink of her hot chocolate and decides to ignore it.

They agree to keep each other in the loop to the extent they can, and end up walking back together through the town towards where O parked his car. The conversation moves onto lighter topics, as O describes the antics of his more irritating of his co-workers, and the Doctor tells him more about the shenanigans she and Peri got themselves into over the last few weeks. It’s funny, she thinks, because part of her had been secretly worried that meeting O in person would set things off-balance – that they wouldn’t get along as well as they had over text, and that their friendship would begin to fall apart. But the words come easily, the conversation flowing like they’ve been friends for decades, and she can’t help but find his company almost comforting, in a peculiar way. She wonders if maybe it’s because, other than the fam, he’s been one of the main constants in her life since the train crash. His emails had regularly found their way into her inbox for the last two years, even before that, and she’d found a certain solace in them. She could be honest with him, pouring out her heart into pixelized words in a way that she sometimes couldn’t do with the others. The others had only known her since the accident, and – well, they worry about her. And whilst it’s _nice_ to have someone care about her enough to worry, it can also feel…

She doesn’t want to say _stifling,_ but…

She needs to be seen as in control. As _brilliant._ And, well, she’s the first to admit that she might have a _bit_ of an ego but the fact is the idea of the others thinking of her as _vulnerable_ grates, somewhat.

O…doesn’t see her like that.

O has come to her for help – _twice._ And he trusts her to fix this.

Not that the others _didn’t_ trust her to fix things – she _knows_ they do, always have, but –

Ugh.

“Doctor?” O says, and she realises she hasn’t answered him – nor was she listening to what he’d just been saying.

“Oh, I –” she starts, with no idea what words are going to tumble out of her mouth, when suddenly she spots a familiar figure sitting by a wall of a shop on a piece of cardboard. “Ada!”

The young woman looks up in surprise, and then waves. The Doctor immediately makes a beeline for her, happy for the easy distraction, and O follows behind her asking confused questions that she decides not to answer. She’ll explain to him in a minute.

“Hey!” she says when she reaches the girl, leaning herself against the wall. “You doing alright?”

Ada shrugs. “Could be worse.”

The Doctor hums. “Yeah, I suppose it’ll be easier when the weather’s a bit warmer.”

Ada just shrugs again. The Doctor doesn’t say anything for a moment, before indicating to O. “This is my friend, O!”

“O?” Ada questions – or maybe it’s _oh?_ The Doctor isn’t sure, but she supposes it doesn’t matter.

“Short for Oliver,” O explains. “Also, people tend to say ‘Oh…’ when I enter the room.” He shrugs. “I decided to own it.”

“Oh…” Ada says.

“Exactly!” the Doctor says brightly. “And O, this is Ada – she’s been helping me with the other case I just started working on.”

“Oh?” he says – and it _is_ ‘oh’ this time, she’s about 98% sure – “What’s the case about?”

“There’s been a number of rough sleepers going missing in the past few weeks,” she explains, before indicating to Ada. “Ada saw someone get taken – and then we found her body a few days later.”

“Blimey,” says O. “That’s terrifying.”

“Yep,” the Doctor agrees. “And the police aren’t really doing anything, so…” She turns back to Ada. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen anything else? Or heard anything? Anything weird?”

Ada shakes her head. “Unless you count that I had to fix Steve’s phone for the fifth time in two weeks as _weird,_ I don’t think so.”

The Doctor smiles at that, even if she feels a flicker of disappointment. She needs more leads on this case, but she’s not quite sure where to start. Maybe she can ask Yaz, see if the police have found out who the woman is. “Alright. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re good with technology?” O asks, tone curious.

“Yeah,” Ada replies. “Might not look the part, but I have a degree in computer science.”

“And she’s pretty nifty when it comes to fixing things too,” the Doctor says.

“I dabble,” Ada says, giving half a shrug.

The Doctor glances back at O. “Don’t let her fool you, she’s brilliant.”

O just smiles. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’d better!” she says, as she pushes herself away from the wall, looking back at Ada. “Do you want me to get you anything to eat?”

Ada shakes her head. “Someone else got me something. But thanks.”

“Alright. I’ll see you around then?” she says as she moves away. “That offer with the TARDIS is still open, by the way! I wasn’t joking!”

The Doctor catches the slight smile that tugs at the corner of Ada’s mouth, even as they move away. “I’ll let you know if I can fit it into my busy schedule.”

She gives her a thumbs up, before turning away, heading back in the direction they were headed in originally. After a moment, she glances at O, only to find him frowning at her.

“What?” she questions. O blinks, like he hadn’t realised he’d been looking her way.

“Oh, nothing, it’s just…” A smile quirks at his lips. “I’m a little surprised you’re offering to let her look at the TARDIS.”

She groans and rolls her eyes. “Yaz said that too! Why is everyone saying that?”

“Because we both know how protective you are of that van,” O replies, perfectly reasonable, his tone fond. “You can’t really deny it, Doctor.”

“I can and I will.” She makes the mistake of looking at him again, and can’t help but smile at his expression. “ _Ugh,_ alright, you’re both right.” She sighs. “I don’t know. You know sometimes you just get that feeling in your gut? When you trust someone? It’s a bit of that. But also…I guess I don’t want her to just think I’m trying to get information out of her for the case, and then I just leave again, you know? She deserves better than that. A lot of people out here do. So…” She shrugs. “It’s the least I can do, I reckon.”

“I see,” O hums, clearly turning what she’s saying over in his head. She smirks, elbowing him.

“Don’t worry about getting jealous,” she assures cheekily. “I get good vibes from you too.”

“‘ _Good vibes’?_ ” he repeats, amused and incredulous in equal measure. She can’t help but cackle at his expression.

“You heard me! And I refuse to take it back.”

O just shakes his head in bewilderment. “Well – thank you, I guess?”

“You’re welcome,” she says, taking one last swig of her hot chocolate and throwing the cup into a nearby bin, before shoving the hand that isn’t holding onto the folder into her pocket. She can’t help but smile, feeling more settled within herself than she has in a long while. She just hopes the feeling might last her the rest of the day. That would be nice. “You’re very welcome indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yep, just to clarify - the Doctor is genderqueer in this au, but uses she/her pronouns (she's pretty pronoun indifferent, actually). Her thinking 'but will i need to run today' is inspired by my own main concern if I ever get my hands on a binder HAHAH (me: but what if there are ALIENS and i need to run?)
> 
> And I should also mention - this fic is inspired by several other fanfics, mostly Venom fics. This chapter in particular has a bit of an allusion to one of my favourite Venom fics which is called [Where Our Heart Is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16317524/chapters/38169569) by Yuu_chi - specifically in terms of general inspiration around the case, as well as all the legal jargon in the files O gives the Doctor haha. If you like Venom, definitely go check it out, it's GREAT.
> 
> Anyhow - hope you enjoyed! We are beginning to get into Actual Plot territory now. I drew a little sketch of O and the Doctor from this chapter, and it's [over here](https://picnokinesis.tumblr.com/post/637148762175864832/a-little-sketch-of-o-and-the-doctor-from-the) if you want to see!


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which it is painfully obvious I know nothing about cars

“Hello?” comes Yaz’s voice down the phone.

“Yaz! Hi!” the Doctor says, her phone lying on the tarmac beside her, loudspeaker on, as she fiddles with some of the piping underneath the TARDIS. She thinks something has started leaking. “Can I ask you something that may or may not be slightly illegal?”

She hears Yaz sigh, long-suffering but amused. “I get the feeling even if I say no, you’re going to ask anyway.”

“Yep!” she responds cheerfully. “So, you know that dead body me and Ada found –”

“Doctor,” Yaz says, “if you’re asking for details about the case, you know I can’t really tell you anything.”

The Doctor groans. “I just wondered if you’d got anywhere with figuring out who she was. Don’t I get, like, the right to know at least a little bit? Since I called it in?”

“I can tell you we’re treating it as suspicious,” Yaz says carefully.

“Well, I’d _hope_ you would be,” she replies, frowning at the pipes above her, before spotting the offending nut that must have shaken loose. She grabs a spanner and begins adjusting it. “What about the woman’s identity? Have you been able to tell her family?”

“We –” Yaz starts, faltering. Then she sighs. “We haven’t been able to identify her.”

Now _that’s_ interesting. “No ID?”

Yaz says nothing. The Doctor’s frown deepens.

“So she _did_ have ID, but – then you’d know, so…it was a dead end? Was it fake?” Her mind is racing already with the implications of that.

“Doctor, you’ll get me in trouble. You _know_ I can’t tell you too much.”

She gives the spanner a hard _wrench_ – the nut is stuck. Bother. “Even if it helps me get to the bottom of this? It’s not like I’m going to use it _against_ the police.”

She can hear the slight smile in Yaz’s voice. “I’m pretty sure you’d get to the bottom of it anyway, even without my help.”

“Yeah, but I like your help!” she protests, wiggling the spanner and trying again at a slightly different angle. This time, the nut pops right off, and gravity sends it straight down into her face. “ _Ow.”_

“You alright?”

The Doctor scrunches her face before reaching for the nut, which has pinged off onto the tarmac. “Fine, just tinkering.” She pauses. “There’s really nothing else you can tell me?”

“No!”

“Ughh,” the Doctor complains, realigning the piping before putting the nut back in position. “Fine. It was worth a shot.”

“What have you figured out on it so far?” Yaz asks, curiosity leaking through her tone. The Doctor winces.

“Well, not much. I don’t really have that many leads at the moment, other than people have been going missing from the streets for a few weeks at least, and if they were taken by the same people who took that women, then they’re a group with a good number of resources and not ad-hoc amateurs, if the fact they had uniform and equipment is anything to go by. But – well, I’ve been a little distracted by the other case –”

“You have another case already?”

The Doctor twists the spanner. “Yep. Got an email the other day about it. Corporate crime, you know. My usual beat. Oh, and unethical human experimentation.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yep. Something to do with this thing called biohacking. It’s where you use technology to try and…upgrade yourself, I suppose is the best way to put it. Well, actually it’s not as simple as that – it’s a lot about using supplements and tweaking your diet and doing experiments on yourself to try and make your body stay fit and healthy for longer, but in _this_ case it’s more about technology. Integrating technology with the body to…improve people.”

It reminds her, unnervingly, of a case she tries to avoid thinking about. Her memories of going to university are patchy, but some very important ones had remained, namely the ones where she and a group of friends had investigated a transhumanist cult that called themselves the Cybermen. She remembers seeing the things they did to people, the ones in charge perfectly willing to cut up their followers for the sake of _improvement,_ just so they could ensure the procedures would work when they enacted them on themselves. And she remembers –

Well.

She’d lost people she cared about, doing that case.

And even though she doesn’t remember everything about what had happened, there’s one thing she knows for sure – it had been her idea to investigate the Cybermen in the first place.

Yaz’s voice pulls her back out of the past. “Ok…so what’s this got to do with corporate crime?”

“Imagine biohacking not done by individuals on themselves,” she says. “Imagine a _company_ looking into it, conducting _research_ into it. And then acting on that research.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Yaz says, sounding a little disturbed.

“That’s one way to put it,” the Doctor murmurs, thinking of the lab reports she’d started to look through that O had given her. Injecting people with something called ‘CRISPR’ – although what that is, she isn’t completely sure – and then inserting devices at the base of the skull that seemed to have some kind of effect on brainwave activity and neurological stimulation…those were the main things she’d been able to pick out. And she still had more to read through, wider research that she needed to conduct before she fully understood it. But the main thing that had grabbed her attention had been the effect on the participants – immune reactions, irrationality, and then in several cases multiple seizures or even _organ failure,_ somehow, both of which had led to death. She hasn’t managed to figure out exactly what they’re trying to _achieve_ yet, however. Of course, she hasn’t finished reading yet, but there isn’t anything yet which seems to indicate a _goal_ they’re trying to reach, a hypothesis they’re trying to test – other than, perhaps, whether the technology can be used without causing death.

She keeps thinking about what O had said.

_Twenty of thirty participants dead._

She only wishes that she’d asked the most important question.

What’s happened to the other ten?

“What are you going to do, then?” Yaz asks her. “I presume you’ve got further with that one, if you’ve got a source?”

“Yep. I’ve already requested an interview with the top guy. Just waiting to see if they’ll actually reply.” The nut is back in place now, tightly secured, and she puts the spanner down. “Oh! But if I get an interview, wanna come? If you’ve not got shifts, of course.”

She can hear Yaz smile down the receiver. “Come with you to watch you tear apart some top dog who’s hurting people for their own gain? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Knew you would,” she grins back. “I’m gonna ask the others too. Been a while since we all piled into the TARDIS, hasn’t it?”

“Don’t I know it,” Yaz replies, and the Doctor thinks she can hear a strange relief in her friend’s tone. Like she’d missed this more than the Doctor had realised. She can’t help but feel a flicker of her _own_ kind of relief – that she’s wanted. Needed, even.

“Great! Well, I’ll let you know. Might be a while before I hear back anyway. In the meantime, I’ve got reading to do. Once I’ve finished up here.”

“What are you even doing?”

“I told you! Tinkering!”

Yaz snorts down the receiver. “I swear you’re tinkering with that thing more often than not. Surely you’ve fixed everything by now.”

“I am not! Besides, it’s all warranted – the TARDIS needs a lot of love and attention or she’ll start misbehaving. That, and I’ve been away for four weeks. Had to sort out the tyres as well earlier, they were looking a bit on the sad side. What are _you_ even doing?”

“Walking home from work. Actually, do you want to swing by for tea? My mum keeps asking after you.”

The Doctor decides that she’s finished for now, and wriggles her way out from underneath the van, reaching back under to pull out her phone and tools. “Does she? Can’t imagine why,” she replies, trying for nonchalant but missing it by about a hundred miles.

“Uh huh,” Yaz says, clearly unconvinced. “Come on, though. It’s been ages. My dad’s cooking – not pakora, don’t worry.”

The Doctor smiles at that as she pushes herself to her feet, wincing at the gravelly tarmac under the skin of her hands. “Hey, it wasn’t that bad last time!”

“Doctor, it was _terrible._ You just haven’t had _good_ pakora.”

“True. Also was a bit distracted by those spiders at the time.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. You coming then?”

The Doctor leans herself against the side of the TARDIS and considers it – on one hand, _yes,_ she’d love to go. On the other hand, there’s documents she’d planned to pour over. Research to do. Articles to find commissions for. Things which are important – that people are _depending on_. She can’t stop thinking of those ten remaining participants.

_Where are they now?_

_Where are they now?_

Yaz clearly feels her hesitation. “Come on – all the stuff you need to do will still be there when you get back.” The Doctor doesn’t say anything, and so she carries on. “You can even bring your laptop if you want to look up stuff on the sofa after. I can help.”

She feels _vaguely_ like she’s being coaxed into coming over with the promise of being able to do work whilst she’s there. “You’re acting like I don’t do anything other than eat and work!”

Yaz laughs. “Well, you definitely don’t _sleep._ ”

She sighs. “Ok, point taken. But in my defence, I work perfectly fine on a couple of hours.”

“Doctor, Ryan told me he found your cereal bowl in the fridge when he got home today.”

Whoops. “I’m jetlagged! And besides, that’s completely irrelevant!”

Yaz just laughs. “If you say so. Are you coming, then?”

“‘Course I’ll come,” she says, as if she’d never considered any different. She tilts her head back against her van, looking up at the approaching dusk. The clouds are a soft pink, salmon streaks against the deepening blue. “What time?”

“Just give me a few minutes to get home and warn them, then head on over,” Yaz says. “Make sure you let Graham and Grace know!”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I know,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “See you then.”

“See ya!”

Yaz hangs up, and the Doctor looks at her phone for a moment before shutting the screen off and tucking it into her pocket. She spends a quiet second mentally preparing herself for the fact she will have to face the scrutiny of Najia Khan in short order for an indefinite amount of time.

From what she can remember, she’s never had much luck with _mothers._

(And, well. Even though she _can’t_ remember, she clearly didn’t have much luck with her own.)

She shakes her head, like maybe the thought will tumble out of her ears, before giving the TARDIS a pat as she pushes herself off it. “Wish me luck, then. She’s probably going to question me all about where I’ve been and why I made her daughter all worried or something.”

The TARDIS, of course, says nothing, but the gleam of evening light on the windscreen looks distinctly like it’s saying ‘ _and whose fault is that?’_

The Doctor rolls her eyes. “Oh, shush, or next time I won’t fix your terrible pipes.”

She’s met with an impressively unimpressed silence for an inanimate object. In response, she just smiles, amused.

“Oh, stop it, you know I’m kidding,” she says, kicking one of the tyres playfully before she heads in to the O’Brien’s house, the sunset catching on the strands of her hair.

“So, Doctor,” Najia says as Yaz starts clearing the dishes off the table, the last of the aloo keema and the rice pretty much polished off. “Yaz said you’ve been away for a while?”

“Oh mum, don’t start questioning her,” Yaz says, already anticipating what’s about to come next – something akin to a suspect being grilled by her supervisor down at the station. She loves her mum, but she does have a tendency to be a bit…well, _interrogatory._ Especially to certain investigative reporters who refuse to go by their given name and disappear with minimal warning for four weeks.

Because _of course_ Yaz had talked to her mum about the whole affair over the last month. She’d been worried, and there wasn’t a chance of her mum not noticing, or her mum noticing and not asking her about it. There’d been times, only a few years back now, where Yaz hadn’t been so good at talking about what was on her mind, and her parents hadn’t been so good at being understanding. But they’re better at it now – on both sides. Because Yaz has realised that she doesn’t need to handle everything all on her own, and they’ve all learnt that sometimes, you don’t need to fix things when someone you love is hurting. Sometimes, you just need to listen. To be there.

The Doctor sits up, looking a little sheepish, to her credit. “Yep! Went over to the states for a few weeks. Working on a case.”

“I see,” Najia says. “So, I imagine you were very busy then –”

“Yep, she was!” Yaz interrupts before her mum can get any further. “And actually, she’s rather busy now, aren’t you Doctor? You’ve got some things to look up, haven’t you?” She stares at her friend, hoping she’ll get the memo and _agree_ with her.

“Uh – yes? Yes, I do,” the Doctor fumbles. “Very important, actually.”

“Oh?” says Najia, curious in that dangerous way that mothers can be. “What kind of things?”

“Case things,” Yaz explains, before turning to the Doctor. “It’s a bit confidential at the moment, isn’t it?”

“Well –”

“Is Yaz helping you, then?” Najia interrupts, sounding like maybe she’s _actually_ asking something else.

“Yep!” the Doctor says, of course taking the question at face value. “Yaz’s helped me with a lot of cases before, she’s great. Didn’t she –?”

“Come on,” Yaz says, resisting the urge to grab the Doctor’s arm and drag her to the relative safety of the sofa. The Doctor never reacts well to a sudden touch like that. “Go sit on the sofa and get your laptop booted up while I go get mine.”

“Oh, sure!” the Doctor says, clearly seeing the escape from the conversation for what it is. “I’ll be – I’ll go – I’ll see you in a minute then?”

Yaz just nods at her, watching as the Doctor turns her back and heads over to the bag she brought with her. She glances back at her mother, who is giving her an unimpressed look. Yaz just responds with a shrug, combined with a ‘ _what can you do’_ sort of face before heading upstairs to her room, hoping the Doctor manages to not talk her way into a hole before she gets back down.

It’s not that she _doesn’t_ want her mum and the Doctor to get along or anything – far from it. But her mum has always been somewhat…well, suspicious about the Doctor. A thirty-something year old hanging around with two nineteen year olds and two grandparents, who constantly goes by a pseudonym and has a bad case of amnesia. If she thinks about it, she reckons that she’d probably be suspicious of it too if she didn’t actually _know_ the Doctor. Of course, the journalist doesn’t exactly help her case by being somewhat _reckless,_ in particular her tendency to get _way_ too deep into things she probably shouldn’t. But that’s just what Yaz admires about her – that way she just can’t stand to keep silent in the face of injustice, even when she’s just one person. Somehow, she manages to shout loud enough to get listened to – to make _change_ happen.

Yaz thinks if her mum knew her like that, she’d probably see her rather differently.

Unfortunately, she mostly sees her as the person voted most likely to get Yaz involved in something illegal, and thus completely destroy her career in the police.

Which is, admittedly, also quite possible. 

And yet Yaz can’t help but feel like it’s _worth it,_ even if she finds herself tearing her hair out trying to keep the Doctor within the lines of the law – which is about as easy as herding ten cats who are far more interesting in chasing the pigeons over the road. Because with the Doctor, she feels like she can make change happen too. Like she can be part of something more than herself. Like she can actually make a difference to people’s lives. Like she has a _purpose._

And she’s not about to let that go any time soon.

She finds her laptop easily, left closed up on her desk under an emergency management book she’d found in the library, and quickly grabs it and heads back down the stairs, opening the lid so it boots up as she goes. She expects to find her mum still talking to the Doctor when she gets to the bottom step, but instead she finds her friend is chatting eagerly with her dad instead.

“– haven’t found any more yet,” he’s telling her from where he stands beside the sofa, “but if I do, I’ll let you know right away.”

Yaz rounds the other end of the sofa to find the Doctor is grinning from where she’s sat, cross-legged with her laptop and notebook balanced precariously on her lap. “Thanks! I mean, I’d sort of hope you don’t find anything like that again, but –”

“But there’s _always_ something going on,” Hakim insists, and to Yaz’s horror, the Doctor _nods_ in avid agreement.

“Don’t encourage him,” she complains as she flops down on the sofa. “I hear enough conspiracy theories without you getting him going too! He’ll go on about the phones next.”

“The phones?” the Doctor asks, curious – because of course she does. Yaz closes her eyes and groans.

Honestly, she loves her dad and the Doctor to pieces, but there really is only so much a girl can bear.

“Oh, the phones,” Hakim says. “Well, they keep on developing them, improving them, yeah? And they’re getting more and more important in our lives. You need phones for everything these days, don’t you? And people are getting addicted to them. Can’t stop using them. They’re fully _integrated_. So, don’t you think maybe there’s something in them? Messing with our heads? Controlling us?”

The Doctor frowns, clearly unsure. “Uhhhh –”

“But there’s not much to that one yet. It’ll come to light, though! I know it,” he says, before beginning to wander off.

“If you say so, dad,” Yaz says teasingly.

“I do,” he says, “and when it comes, I’ll say: _I told you so!”_

He disappears into the other room at that, and Yaz just shakes her head fondly before turning back to the Doctor, who is already frowning at her laptop.

“So then,” she says, gently kicking her friend. “What are we looking up?”

The Doctor’s gaze snaps to her, before she blinks, clearly thinking. “Hm. Don’t suppose you could look up about that CRISPR thing, could you? C-R-I-S-P-R, all caps. It’s something to do with biohacking, so maybe search a bit on that too.”

Yaz hums. “Alright then. What are you looking at?”

“The company, first – need to do my reading if I’m going to interview the head honcho. See what pieces other people have written on him. Then…I’ll start looking at the biohacking too, probably.”

There’s something about the way she says that last bit, Yaz can’t help but notice. Like the concept of these people who try and use technology to _upgrade_ themselves deeply unsettles her. She’s not sure what it is – personally, she thinks it’s a bit weird, but that it’s not necessarily _bad_ as long as they aren’t putting anyone other than themselves in danger. But the Doctor…

“What is it?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” comes the sharp response, more than a little defensive.

“You just…seem funny about it,” Yaz says carefully, frowning with concern. “This whole biohacking thing, I mean.”

“Oh,” the Doctor says, but doesn’t relax at all. “Well, doesn’t it unnerve you? The fact that they might be doing this sort of thing to people?”

Yaz doesn’t think that’s what it is – but she lets her have it. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

“Exactly,” the Doctor says, huffy – but then her fingers start tip-tapping across her keyboard and her focus is completely on whatever search results are in front of her.

Yaz resists the urge to sigh, and begins her own research.

It turns out, there’s a _lot_ to find on the internet about biohacking. She remembers what the Doctor had said on the phone earlier, about how it isn’t just about technology, but _biology_ too, which seems to include weird drink concoctions and diets. She finds out about some guy who drinks something he calls ‘salt-juice’ every morning in the hopes it’ll help him live longer, and she can’t help but grimace at the thought. But most of it seems technology based, and a lot of it is…kind of _out there,_ she thinks. Sci-fi, almost, but in a strangely plausible way. Things like sensory deprivation tanks and near-infra red saunas and self-regulating brainwaves that are supposed to help in one way or another. And then, of course, people inserting chips into their hands so they can unlock their car without a key, or turn on their lights with a snap of their fingers. There’s one person she finds out about who surgically inserted a device into his chest that buzzed when he faces north, for whatever reason. There’s lots of cases like that – lots of self-experimentation, some of which succeed and some of which fail. And the concept of it seems to be gaining popularity – what had started off with only a handful has begun to grow more common. At least, the tamer aspects of it has, like the chips.

And then, without even having to search for it, she stumbles across CRISPR.

“It’s gene-editing,” she murmurs, and the Doctor looks up from the notes she’s been making with a startled expression.

“Huh?”

“CRISPR,” she says, eyes still fixed on the article she’s reading. “It’s some kind of gene-editing technology. It’s supposed to be used on things like yeast or something, but…people are injecting themselves with it?”

“ _What?_ ” the Doctor says. “Surely that’s dangerous.”

Yaz wants to scoff, since _that’s_ a rich objection coming from the _Doctor_ of all people – but she’s trapped in her own morbid fascination of what she’s discovering. “Well, apparently it’s not even that difficult. There’s people selling DIY CRISPR kits online…and people are just using it to try and make their bodies, well, _better_.”

“Does it _work?_ ” the Doctor asks, her face screwed up with a frown.

“I’m not sure,” she says, her eyes continuing to skim over the article. “Oh, here we go. Seems like some scientists say it’s impossible to say if it actually works or not, since none of these home experiments are using any kind of scientific method. Not controlling variables, stuff like that.”

The Doctor nods. “Yeah, that makes sense. Any data you collect from something like that would be _bad_ data. Pretty much unusable, scientifically speaking.” She looks at Yaz. “But some people claim it works, I’m guessing?”

Yaz nods. “Yeah, a _lot._ There’s some guy called Josiah Zayner who swears by it – and he’s like a proper scientist. Used to work for NASA, something to do with synthetic biology. But apparently he did some publicity stunt where he injected himself with CRISPR in a livestream at a conference. Sounds like it can go wrong though – people can get bad reactions to it, or something. And sometimes it doesn’t even change anything.”

The Doctor frowns, tapping her pen against her notebook as she thinks. “Ok – so an experimental procedure that may or may not help optimise the human body – but why are _VOR_ using it?”

Yaz’s blood runs cold. “Wait – did you say _VOR?”_

The Doctor resolutely looks at the screen in front of her. “Ah, yes. Didn’t I say before?”

“That you’re investigating one of the largest communications technology corporations on the _planet?_ ” Yaz says, incredulous. “No, you didn’t!”

“Well, what difference does it make?” the Doctor replies flippantly, like they live in a world where _size_ and _power_ mean nothing at all. “I don’t care who they are. If they’re hurting people, I’m going to do something about it.”

“I know, but –” Yaz starts, because she _gets it –_ she _agrees,_ even, but – “have you already forgotten what happened _last time_ you went after big, corrupt corporate types?”

The Doctor winces, clearly knowing exactly what Yaz is referring to. Before she’d lost her memory, the Doctor had run a big article on a group of corrupt, ultra-rich business men called the Dalek Association. The evidence the Doctor had uncovered had, miraculously, been enough to actually get them all taken down from their positions in their companies, resulting in a rather significant drop in the value of their stocks or something. One member, however, had slipped through, keeping his head down enough to stay out of trouble. He’d spent the time since accruing favour and resources among the rest of the world’s corrupt ultra-rich, until about January 2019. Then he’d attempted to discredit the Doctor’s work, sully her reputation – and pay a few guys to shove her into a van and try and silence her in a more permanent way since she still wouldn’t keep quiet about it.

“I _know_ ,” the Doctor says, scowling now, clicking away at the laptop again. “But that was all fine, in the end, wasn’t it? Just a few scrapes and bruises.”

She’d been black and blue when they’d found her. Yaz shakes her head.

“It took you _months_ to get people to agree to publish your work again.”

“Yeah, well, now they are! No problem! Besides –” the Doctor drops off suddenly, clearly distracted by whatever she’s seeing on the screen.

“Besides?” Yaz prompts, not about to let whatever she’s going to say go unsaid.

“ _Besides,_ this could be a really big case and I’m _not_ about to pass up on it just because last time it ended up sort of rubbish. Rubbish stuff happens to me all the time! It’s practically an occupational hazard at this point.”

Yaz isn’t quite sure if she means occupational hazard of being an investigative reporter, or just of being _the Doctor._

“So to stop looking into this is out of the question,” she continues, stabbing angrily at her keyboard. “If I stopped doing something because I might get hurt, I wouldn’t get _anything_ done.”

“I know,” Yaz says, her voice quiet. Because, really, what she’s trying to do is pointless. Stop her doing something because it might be _dangerous?_ The Doctor lives and _breathes_ dangerous. She just sighs. “I guess I just get worried. This is a big deal.”

And she doesn’t want to risk losing her again.

“Don’t I know it,” the Doctor mutters, her fingers finally pausing for a moment. She looks up at Yaz, looking a little apologetic. “I’d promise I’d be careful, but –”

Yaz just laughs. “You couldn’t be careful even if you _wanted_ to.” She shakes her head. “It’s ok. Just –” she fixes her gaze on the Doctor, unable to stop herself smiling slightly – “just let me be your back-up, yeah? Don’t do it all on your own.”

The Doctor’s mouth breaks into a glorious grin, and she elbows Yaz’s leg. “ _Always,_ Yasmin Khan! Wouldn’t want _anyone else_ backing me up!”

And if _that_ doesn’t make Yaz blush, nothing else will, probably. Luckily, the Doctor doesn’t seem to notice at all, far too busy making more notes in her notebook. Yaz looks over, only to find that she’s writing in that strange, circular symbol cipher she writes a lot of her notes in. Yaz has always thought it looked incredibly beautiful and intricate – and, therefore, a lot more time-consuming than just noting things down in English. But the Doctor manages to scribble it down lightning fast, and it _does_ mean that she doesn’t have to worry about any unwanted eyes reading her notes.

“Just adding in what you found about CRISPR,” she adds. “Find anything else interesting?”

Yaz clears her throat. “I – uh, I’ll send you over a couple of links.”

“Great!” She finishes one last circle with a flourish, before beginning to shut down things on her computer. She clicks her pen a couple of times – in-out, in-out – before glancing back at Yaz. “I think I’m gonna head off now. Grace might be wondering…”

“Sure,” Yaz says, swinging her legs off the sofa and sticking her laptop on the coffee table, shutting the lid with a quiet _click._ The Doctor gets up too, somehow managing not to trip on the charging wire as she goes to unplug it from the socket. Yaz smiles fondly, before glancing out the window. The inner sides of Park Hill stretch out beyond, the empty parts that haven’t been renovated yet curving round in the dark.

“You ok to walk back on your own?” she asks, thinking of Sheffield at night – she’s seen the best and worst of it, after all.

“I’ll be fine,” the Doctor says, and Yaz turns to see her coiling up the wire. “It’s barely even five minutes, isn’t it? Besides, if anyone tries anything, I’ll –”

“Call the police,” Yaz finishes pointedly. “Not punch them, or engage them in some kind of Socratic debate.”

“I wasn’t going to say that!”

Yaz snorts, following the Doctor as she moves to stuff her laptop back in her bag. She folds her arms. “Then what?”

“I was _going_ to say,” she hedges, clearly trying to pull something out of her head, “throw a spoon at them and run the other way.”

Yaz grins. “Of course, you were. Because you totally have a spoon to hand.”

To her disbelief, the Doctor digs into the front pocket of her bag and pulls out a spoon.

“Ha! Yes, I do!”

“ _What?_ ” Yaz manages through her laughter. Honestly? She should have known better than to say things like that – when it comes to the Doctor, that’s just _asking_ to be proven wrong in the most ridiculous way possible. “Why do you even _have_ that?”

“I’ve been travelling! It’s always useful to have a spoon. Never know when you might need one!”

And with that, the Doctor zips up her bag and swings it onto her shoulder and turns to Yaz, looking irritatingly pleased with herself. Yaz rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

“Alright then,” she says. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“’ll try not to be,” the Doctor says with a smile that looks a little tight, but somehow manages to be soft around the edges. Yaz feels her shoulders sink slightly, wishing she could be a better friend – wishing she could get it through to her that she’s here for her. Always.

But she doesn’t say any of that out loud, of course, instead hanging just behind the Doctor as she heads down the corridor to the door. “Say hi to the others for me.”

“Will do!” comes the reply, and with that, the door is being pulled open and the Doctor is disappearing off down the walkway. Yaz stands in the doorway for a minute, watching her head towards the lift. She tries to tell herself there’s a perfectly reasonable reason for doing it, but if she’s honest, she knows there isn’t really. She just can’t shake that feeling that if she turns away for just a second, the Doctor will be gone again, out of her life like she’d never even been in it.

She wrestles with that thought for a moment, unsure. Then she pushes herself away from the doorframe and closes the door before her parents notice her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so like I DON’T SHIP THASMIN buuuut I can see it, especially unrequited from Yaz’s side, and so that definitely feeds into how I write her.  
> 
> 
> Anyway – lots of info this chapter. I did a bunch of research for this fic in general, but if you wanna read more on biohacking and CRISPR (and see all the stuff I mentioned) you can take a look [right here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWvUs8el8-A), or [here](https://www.vox.com/future-perfect/2019/6/25/18682583/biohacking-transhumanism-human-augmentation-genetic-engineering-crispr), or [here too!](https://www.vox.com/future-perfect/2019/5/19/18629771/biohacking-josiah-zayner-genetic-engineering-crispr) And then here’s also an article on [transhumanism](https://www.theverge.com/2017/2/25/14730958/transhumanism-mark-oconnell-interview-cyborg-hacker-futurist-biohackers) here, if you were interested in that too. Of course, biohacking and transhumanism isn’t a bad thing in and of itself – only if you’re subjecting people to it without their consent (or, like, encouraging people to do really dangerous procedures on themselves).  
> 
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter! Let me know what you thought! And as always, next chapter will be up around this time next week.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love for the dynamic duo that is Ryan and Thirteen returns

The email comes through several days later.

“ _Yes!_ ” the Doctor shouts, ecstatic, unable to resist punching the air in her excitement. “Get in!”

“What is it?” asks Ryan, blinking at her, flour-covered hands held in front of him awkwardly. Him and Grace have been attempting to bake muffins – on Grace’s part, they’ve gone rather well, but on Ryan’s, well…

The Doctor thinks he’s got more of a talent for engineering, but she’s not exactly one to judge. She tends to make more mess than food whenever _she_ ends up in a kitchen.

“Got an interview with the guy who runs this company,” she says, already opening the email up in a new window to read the rest of it properly.

“What, the guy with the company you’re writing the new article on?” Ryan asks, eyes already alight with excitement. “The one with all those dodgy papers your mate gave you?”

“That’s the one!” she replies brightly, before scrunching up her nose. “ _Ooh._ Short notice. He’s asking if I can make tomorrow.”

“ _Tomorrow?”_ Ryan repeats. “Whoa. Where’s it gonna be?”

“Their R&D HQ in Manchester,” the Doctor says – which is exactly what she’d been banking on.

“That’s not too far, then,” Grace comments, pouring muffin batter into the tray. “And you said your friend had a place to stay, didn’t you?”

“Yep!” she says. “I could probably leave this evening. Then that gives me time to look those papers over one more time, see if there’s anything I missed…plan some more questions too, maybe.”

“You gonna flat out ask him about the experiments?” Ryan asks.

“Nope – I might bring up about his more _out-there_ projects, but I won’t hint on it specifically. I just want to get a sense for him, maybe figure out what his deal is.” Because that’s what she’s not quite getting. Is he a fanatic, just like O said, thinking he can improve humanity somehow? Or is this more of a desperate need to accrue more power for himself, inventing technology far enough ahead of any competitors so that he entirely dominates the market? Or something else entirely?

She’s not sure. Hence, interview.

“I am gonna have to go back to him again, though, once I’ve collected some hard evidence of what O’s been saying, to confront him about it directly,” she continues, skimming over the last of the email before clicking the reply button.

“Because you wanna see how he reacts to it, right?” Ryan says, heading to the sink to wash his hands whilst Grace put the tray in the oven. “Like, put him on the spot, so he can’t talk his way out of it or something.”

“Well, yeah, mostly,” she says, unable to resist the smile that quirks at her lips. “That’s the fun bit. He probably _will_ talk his way out of it – but, well, it’s not just about getting a good reaction from him. It’s also a journalism ethics thing. You’ve got to give the subjects of your investigation a chance to defend themselves or refute the claims. If he declines to comment or calls me crazy –” she shrugs – “then that’s his problem, not mine.”

“I’ll expect he’ll try and prove his innocence,” says Grace warningly. “You’ll have to make sure your evidence is rock solid.”

“Oh, it will be,” she says, with her special kind of arrogant confidence. “Remember the Dalek Association? If I can get them, I can get this guy.”

“Didn’t those guys kidnap you though?” Ryan asks with a frown.

“Entirely besides the point,” she replies, beginning to tap away at the start of her email. “And anyway, there’s no point if you’re keeping everyone happy. That’s basically my job description, y’know? Ruffling feathers.”

“You have a job description?” Ryan murmurs in disbelief.

The Doctor taps her chest. “Only in my heart, which is what really counts.”

Ryan muttered something about how _his_ job description isn’t anywhere _near_ his heart, just as Grace comes to stand by the table beside where the Doctor sits.

“You’re going tonight, then?” she asks.

“Yep, looks like it. You guys wanna tag along?”

Grace looks regretful. “Got a shift this evening. And tomorrow. You’ve got a block of days off now though, haven’t you Ryan?”

“Yeah, I have actually,” he says. “But didn’t you say you was staying at your mate’s place or something?”

The Doctor waves a hand. “It’s fine, he’s got room. I already asked.”

Ryan nods, already looking eager. “Yeah, alright then. Graham will probably want to come too, it’s not like he’ll have much else to do.”

“Ryan!” Grace says pointedly. “He keeps himself plenty busy.”

“Uh huh,” he says, clearly unconvinced, before he frowns. “You’re ok on your own though, yeah?”

Grace scoffs. “‘Course I will. Don’t keep yourself from a bit of an adventure on my account. Only wish I could come along too!” She flashes a smile at the Doctor that she’s come to know well – the kind that says she’s as hungry for danger and excitement as the Doctor is. “It _is_ fun watching you tear into them.”

The Doctor grins back. “Next time?”

“Oh, you won’t be able to stop me,” comes the reply.

“Wouldn’t _dream_ of it,” she says, before pulling out her phone. “I’ll text Yaz – see if she’s got days off too. And if she’s not busy.”

“That’ll be a miracle,” Ryan says. “Both of us having days off at the same time.”

“Not a miracle! Not even impossible. Just improbable,” she replies. “Besides, impossible things are basically my speciality at this point.”

“Along with ruffling those feathers?” Grace asks, amused.

The Doctor just grins. “Got it in one.”

It’s not long after that when she’s positioned in her favourite place in the house – the O’Brien’s extremely comfy sofa – and pouring over the VOR files, looking for any more details or patterns that she might have missed. She’s trying to figure out if there’s any way she can connect the participants, figure out _why_ they might have been picked in particular for the trials out of any volunteers VOR got. But there doesn’t seem to be anything that really links between them – no similarities that she can gleam from the clinical stats on the consent forms before her.

No similarities, that is, until she notices the addresses.

“Hold on a minute,” she murmurs to herself, flicking through them again in case she’s mistaken – but no, this isn’t quite working, and so she gets up and heads over to the dining table, spreading out the papers in front of her so she can see them all easily.

“That can’t be right,” she murmurs. “Unless it is. But then that means –”

“Means what?” Ryan asks, coming into the room with a couple of muffins in his hands. The Doctor glances at him for a moment, before beckoning him over urgently.

“Come here! Come look at this!” she says, and he obediently comes over to her side. “Look at them. What do you notice?”

“Um,” Ryan says, looking like he perhaps wants to put the muffins in his hands down, but there isn’t a spare muffin-sized space on the table before him. “I don’t know. They look like medical forms of some kind.”

She nods quickly – he hasn’t hit onto what she’s seen, _be more specific_. “Yes yes, they’re consent forms actually but close enough – but what do you notice about the _addresses?_ ”

“The addresses?” he repeats, clearly confused – but then, as she watches, a sudden realisation dawns on his face. “Whoa. A load of these are –”

“In _Sheffield,_ ” she answers. “And those that aren’t, well, they aren’t from much further afield.”

“That’s proper weird,” Ryan says. “Isn’t this place you’re investigating in, like, Manchester or something?”

“Exactly,” she says, mind whirling, thoughts racing down the tracks to the next location. “And so you’d expect the participants to be from the city, right? And a few of them are, sure, but –”

“But most of them ain’t,” Ryan says. “Like, more than half.”

“Twenty-three out of thirty,” she murmurs, having just counted them. “Way more than half.”

She lunges out across the table, collecting the papers back in again with lightning speed, a plan already forming in her mind.

“So what does that mean?” Ryan asks, following behind her as she makes a beeline for the sofa, picking up the folder before she heads out of the room and up the stairs. “Doctor –?”

“It _means –”_ she starts, slotting the forms into the folder, and then cuts off. “Well, actually, I’m not completely sure what it means, but I’ve got several theories! But more importantly –” she heads through the doorway and into her room, grabbing her bag off the floor and chucking a couple of things out of it before sticking the folder inside it and grabbing her notebook from where she’d left it on the bed – “more importantly, I now have something to look into before we go tonight. If I can get to at least _some_ of these addresses, I can talk to the people who live there – see if they know the people who filled in those consent forms. Maybe they know what happened to them. Or even _better,_ maybe they can tell me why no-one’s said anything about these people dying.”

“Nice.”

She turns back to flash Ryan a smile, only to see he’s standing awkwardly in the doorway, still holding two muffins in his hand.

“Oh,” she says. “Muffins.”

“Yep.” He holds one out to her. “Want one?”

She zips the bag shut, before swinging it onto her back and moving towards the door, deftly taking the proffered muffin from Ryan’s hand as she passes. It’s still warm from the oven, chocolate chips half-melted. She admires it as she walks down the landing. “Looks like they turned out good! Did you try one yet?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says enthusiastically. “They taste _amazing_.”

She takes a heartily bite, feeling the way Ryan stares at her in mundane awe as she manages walking-down-the-stairs and muffin-eating without stumbling and falling headfirst down into the hallway.

“ _Mm!_ Fantastic!” she says, the words muffled through the cake in her mouth. She swallows, turning back to look at him once she reaches the lower floor. “How many more of these did you make?”

“About fifteen, I reckon,” he says, his hand resting on the bannister as he takes the last few steps down. A coy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “But, uh. You might wanna get back before Graham sees them, is all I say.”

She grins mischievously back at him, before reaching for the door handle.

“I’ll tell Nan you’re off, then,” he says. There’s something about the way he says it, though, that makes her hesitate, halfway through turning the lock. It’s reminds her of something she’s seen in Ryan before – like he’s constantly trying to prove that he’s useful. Capable.

She looks back over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. She sees it again now. There’s a look in his eyes that she can’t quite shake.

She smiles, suddenly wondering why she didn’t ask what she’s about to say earlier.

“Wanna come with?”

The pair of them end up trudging against the strong breeze under the overcast winter sky, the TARDIS parked further down the road. Ryan is wrapped in his sensible coat, pulling it closed against the wind, whilst the Doctor making do with her slightly-less-sensible jacket. She has stuck a white undershirt on underneath her usual maroon t-shirt, but – well, she’s fine. She’s certainly dealt with _worse_ than a bit of a chill in the air.

She’s holding the folder with the forms, looking over the addresses whilst Ryan consults his phone for directions. In their excitement to get out and go, they hadn’t had the forethought to actually _check_ where all the addresses led to, and thus weren’t following any sort of sensible route. Ryan had heard of one of the street names and figured it was close by, so they’d jumped in the TARDIS and headed in that direction first…only to quickly discover that actually Forrington Street was not the same as Forrington _Avenue,_ which was apparently on the other side of the estate. Because of course.

But things are chugging along a bit better now – or, well, sort of. They’ve visited four of the addresses, and got no answer at two of them. It had looked to the Doctor like no one had been home rather than the house being unoccupied, so they’d decided not to read into it too much. Of the two where they _had_ gotten an answer, one door had opened to a woman with her hair wrapped in a brightly-coloured towel, who was best described as _cross_ right up to her eyebrows. She’d made it quite clear that no-one of the name on the form had lived there for a _very_ long time, and that she had no interest in talking about it, thank you very much. The second house had opened to a thin, quiet man who had explained he’d only moved in recently and didn’t know anything about the previous occupant, other than the house had been repossessed.

The theories that had begun blooming in her mind earlier are blossoming further as she considers this new information, but it’s hard to draw any kind of general conclusion yet. She needs way more data.

“The next one should be just up here,” Ryan says, snapping her out of her thoughts. He glances at her, raising his eyebrows. “What do you reckon? Another one that doesn’t open up?”

Her face scrunches. “Is it too much to hope for someone who actually has some _answers?_ ”

Ryan smiles wryly. “Probably. I’d just settle for someone who knows the people on those forms at this point.”

“Oh, that first lady knew the name,” the Doctor says with certainty. “No doubt. She wouldn’t have been nearly half as cross if she didn’t.”

“I thought it was because she’d just come out the shower or something,” Ryan replies, and the Doctor gives an amused huff.

“It wasn’t just that,” she says. “She was annoyed when she opened the door, sure. But she was _angry_ when we asked about the name. If she hadn’t known it…”

Ryan nods. “She’d have just said she didn’t know. Not been so insistent about them not living there.”

“Exactly.” The phone beeps in Ryan’s hand, and she glances at it, before looking up at the terraced house on their right. She points. “This one?”

“This one,” he confirms, stopping just before the gate to let her overtake him. She reaches over the railing, pushing up the latch. The gate swings open with a shrill note, and in the window there’s a rustle of curtains. Anticipation builds in her chest. Someone’s home.

She strides down the patio, hopping up onto the step and ringing the doorbell. Ryan hovers just behind her, fumbling to slip his phone into his pocket.

The door opens part of the way, and a man with tan skin and a dark mop of hair sticks his head out, eyes wary.

“Hello?” he says, his voice slightly accented. “Can I help you?”

“Hi there!” the Doctor says brightly, the persona she needs slipping on as easily as a pantomime mask. “I’m the Doctor, and this is Ryan.” The man frowns at her name, but she ploughs straight onwards. “I’m a reporter, and I’m investigating some possible disappearances.” She doesn’t glance down into the folder in her hands – she’s already memorised the name. Her expression is much more serious now. “Do you know anyone called Noor Khan? Or do you know if she used to live here?”

The man tenses almost imperceptibly, but the Doctor catches it, her eyes fixed on him.

“Yes,” he says. “She’s my sister.”

Oh, _now_ they were getting somewhere.

“When did you last see her?” she asks, gently.

The man shakes his head. “Weeks ago. She was –” He frowns. “Did you say she’s missing?”

“We had reason to believe she might have cut contact with people close to her very suddenly,” the Doctor says, going for vague since she doesn’t _actually_ know what’s happened yet. She can’t make an accusation – can’t _spread_ accusations around – before she’s accrued a solid case. It’s a case of journalism ethics, as well as making sure the case actually leads to _justice._ If the story gets out before she’s ready, that would be definitely _not good._ “When you saw her – did she say she was going anywhere in particular? Or that she might be gone for a while?”

There’s a tension in the man’s eyes, and for a moment she feels guilty for suddenly throwing this on him. But – no, that’s not quite right. Because that look in his eyes isn’t new. It’s an aching worry that’s begun to worm its way into the contours of his face.

He’d been worried about his sister _before_ they came to the doorstep, she’s sure of it.

“She doesn’t talk about her work much. She’s not allowed to,” he says. “But she did say she’d be away for a few days, working on something new. Only she’s been more than a few days.”

“What did you do then?” Ryan asks, his concerned frown seeping into his tone.

“I tried to contact the people she works for, but…” The man bites his lip, clearly uncertain of what he should say. There’s some kind of debate going on behind his eyes, and he doesn’t answer until something wins out. “The people I got through to said everything was fine. Just…delayed. That I shouldn’t worry.”

It’s that, coupled with the fact that Noor isn’t _allowed_ to talk about her work that particularly catches the Doctor’s interest. But she knows if she outright asks about it, she’s not going to get anywhere further than the door shut in her fact again. _Secrets_ and _journalists_ have never really mixed well – people like her have a tendency to rip apart everything just to uncover what lies beneath. Sometimes, a more subtle approach is needed.

“Has she ever been delayed like this before?” she asks instead, frowning.

“By a few days. Never more than a week.” He shifts in the doorway. “What makes you think she’s missing? Who do you work for?”

“Freelance,” the Doctor says quickly. “And her name and this address came up during our investigation involving others who might be missing too.” Her face puckers. “I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more, but there’s still a lot we don’t know.”

Distress flashes across the man’s face, barely concealed. “But what are you going to do?” he asks, urgent. “If she’s missing –”

“I’m going to find her.” The promise slips out far too readily. She doesn’t even know if Noor is one of the few participants who survived. But she can’t help it – the sense of certainty in her gut that flies too close to arrogance. She’s the Doctor. Tearing down injustice and bringing lost people home is what she _does._ “I won’t stop until I get to the bottom of this.”

The man doesn’t look convinced, his hand wrapped around the edge of the door in a white-knuckled grip.

“She’ll do it,” Ryan confirms from behind her, steadfast in his trust in her. “I’ve seen her do it, so many times. If there’s anyone who can find your sister, it’s her.”

Sometimes, the Doctor thinks, he trusts her too much. Too unwaveringly. Because even though her past is _patchy_ at best, she knows she’s let people down. She knows she’s gotten people hurt.

But Ryan is right – she _will_ do this. She won’t stop until she wins.

“Exactly,” she says, resisting the urge to grin.

But the man just swallows, staring at them in what might be disbelief – but there’s a flicker of hope there, she thinks. Hidden, tucked away in the corner of his eyes.

“Is there anything else you know?” the Doctor asks, pushing just one more time. “Anything that could be helpful?” 

The man shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what she was supposed to be working on.” He swallows again. “I’m sorry. Would you – just find her, please?”

She nods, fixing her gaze on him. “I will. I’ll bring her home.” She pauses, before digging into her pocket. “If you hear anything else – remember anything else –” she holds out one of her cards for him “– call that number. Or drop an email.” She frowns slightly. “Sorry, I never asked your name.”

“Hidayat,” he replies, hesitating for a moment before he takes the card. He holds it like it might be dangerous.

“Hidayat,” she repeats. “Ok. And I’ll let you know, when I get to the bottom of it.”

He nods, not saying anything. And then, without another word, he shuts the door quietly, still clutching her card in his hand. 

For a moment, the two of them stand there, silent. Then, the Doctor spins on her heels and heads back down the path like she means business, thoughts already racing. She hears Ryan stumble after her, and the squeak of the gate as he closes it behind them.

“What d’you think of that, then?” he asks the moment he reaches her side, falling into step. “Because I thought that guy was proper scared. Or shifty. Not sure which, to be honest. But you know what I mean, yeah?”

“I know _exactly_ what you mean,” she replies. “He was definitely scared – and knew stuff that he wouldn’t say. Or, wasn’t _allowed_ to say.” A sudden epiphany clicks into place. “Oh! Ryan, I think – no, that can’t be right. Unless it is?”

“What? What is it?”

“I _think,”_ she says, “that Noor might work for the government. And I don’t mean a politician.”

“What? You mean – like a _spy_ or something?” he repeats – but it’s less incredulous and more _awed._ “For real? Why d’you think that?”

“Think about it!” she says. “Not allowed to talk about her work. Goes off to _work on new things,_ not saying where she’s going or what she’s doing. And then when she’s delayed, her brother gets worried enough that he calls her employers…and they say everything’s _fine,_ when clearly…” She shakes the folder in her hand pointedly. “Clearly, everything _isn’t._ ” She frowns then. “But _why_ is she one of the participants, then? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“D’you think she was investigating that company then?” Ryan asks. “Doesn’t that mean the government know there’s stuff going on there?”

“Maybe,” the Doctor murmurs, glancing down the path. They’ve almost reached where the TARDIS is parked. “And if that’s true, then it’s just more evidence that there really is something very _fishy_ about those experiments.” She flashes a grin at Ryan, knowing he won’t judge her for her arguably inappropriate excitement. “We’re onto something here.”

“Sounds it,” Ryan says, before frowning. “But if there’s legit, actual _spies_ involved, then that means that this could be _really_ serious. Like, _dangerous_ serious.”

The TARDIS is right beside her, and she pulls out her keys, unlocking the door before pulling the driver’s side open.

“Ryan Sinclair,” she replies with a coy smile that only bodes trouble. “That’s _exactly_ what I’m counting on.”

The rest of the houses that they manage to get to reveal something of a trend – none of the people on the consent forms have been living at those addresses. The stories that the Doctor gets out of those who open the door vary. A handful, like Hidayat, are family members, who say they haven’t seen or heard from the person in weeks. For the most part, they don’t seem too worried – in fact, she gets the sense this is _expected_ behaviour, in most cases. Then there are others who are new house-owners, who know nothing about whoever lived there before. And then even more, like the first woman, refuse to talk to them and slam the door in their faces. But that’s fine – the Doctor can deal with that. It’s not like she isn’t used to it. And besides – a slammed door is as much of an answer as anything else. It tells of anger, practically screams _‘_ _I don’t want to talk about this’_ – which, to her, suggests that a lot of the people on the forms in her hands had difficult relationships with home.

Which, she thinks, explains a lot about why there’s been no alarms raised by the families about their missing relatives.

Unfortunately, it does put to bed O’s theory about the families being silenced by VOR – unless, of course, that’s why some of them had been so adamant about not talking to her. She doesn’t think it’s that, though. It doesn’t _feel_ right. There would have been more fear, she thinks, if they were being forced to keep quiet, and the anger would have been directed at _her,_ to scare her off. No. These people were speaking from that old kind of _family_ hurt that she doesn’t recognise from her _own_ experience, per se, but –

Well. She’s seen it enough times before in _other_ people to know what she’s on about.

It would have been useful, though, if O had been right. It’s one thing to have her shouting into the void about VOR conducting these experiments, with an insider’s information to back her up. But a family affected by it, forced to keep their mouths shut – to be clinical about it, it would have given the story a more human angle. Given it more impetus – given her more _evidence_ to use against the company when she actually goes for them.

But it’s ok. She’ll get what she needs.

VOR won’t be able to get away with what they’re doing.

Not on her watch.

By the time she pulls the TARDIS into a parking space close to the O’Brien’s house, the winter sun is beginning to sink in the afternoon sky, clouds turning pink at the edges where the light catches them. She shuts off the engine and then gathers her stuff, whilst Ryan opens the door on his side and jumps out.

“What now, then?” he asks.

“Now,” she starts, shoving everything back into the folder and pushing her own door open, “I read up some more on VOR, and then get ready to head to Manchester.” She hops out, shutting the door with a satisfying _clunk_ before shoving her keys in her pocket and heading up the pavement. She glances over her shoulder at him as he stumbles to catch up. “You still planning on coming with?”

“‘Course I am,” he says, giving her a look. “Not letting you and Grandad have all the fun.”

She snorts. “‘Course not. Besides, Graham’s far too sensible. Who else is going to belt Bohemian Rhapsody with me with the windows down?”

“Nah, he’s not that sensible – you just got to play ABBA rather than Queen.”

That draws a laugh out of her, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “Good point. Does he have a CD? We should sneak it in to the TARDIS at some point.” She reaches the door, considering the lock before turning back to look at Ryan, patting her pockets fruitlessly. “Don’t suppose you picked up your keys before we left, did you?”

Ryan’s search of his own pockets results in a few sweet wrappers, a twenty-pence piece and a button, but not keys. They surrender to ringing the doorbell after a minute or two, in which the Doctor briefly considers digging the hairgrip out of the TARDIS that she keeps around solely for lock-picking purposes. Graham is the one who answers, and they have to put up with being called ‘a right pair of donuts’ multiple times over the next hour or so. But it’s worth it, the Doctor supposes, to be able to get in for a cuppa and a free supply of biscuits.

Yaz replies to her text saying she’s got a few days off in a row starting tomorrow, so if they wait for her shift to end that evening, she can come along too. She makes use of the time, sitting at the table with her laptop and researching everything she needs to know for this case – more on biohacking, more on VOR, a bit on unethical human experimentation for good measure. The sounds of Graham, Grace and Ryan pottering around the house, chattering as they watch tv in the other room or start working on dinner, act as a comforting background noise. She’s never exactly been one for _domestic,_ but – well. The sense of _family_ is always nice. Stability isn’t really something she’s used to, and so she allows herself to sink into it, just a little. Part of her can’t help but hiss in the background that this is just a false sense of security – that all of this is going to fall away eventually, either by her own hand or the universe, and she’ll be out in the cold once again, with just her TARDIS and the unforgiving tarmac for company.

She grips the pen in her hand a little tighter, pushing the thought aside.

It doesn’t matter, maybe, that this is temporary.

For now, she has it. And she’ll be damned if she’s not going to appreciate this reprieve for what it is, no matter how ephemeral.

Yaz arrives after they’ve eaten dinner, ready and raring to go, which sends the rest of them scurrying to actually pack their bags. The Doctor finishes first, and so Yaz and Grace end up helping her try to deal with the mess of her things in the back of the TARDIS. She _still_ hasn’t gotten around to sorting everything from her trip to the States, but she thinks she’s perfectly justified since she’s been pretty busy since she got back. Yaz and Grace, it seems, are in disagreement.

“But you’ve had time to tinker with the TARDIS,” Yaz argues, picking up a pile of scattered paper and flicking through it. “ _Surely_ you’ve had time to deal with this.”

“Tinkering was important!” she protests. “Wouldn’t want her to break down halfway to Manchester, would you?”

“Of course not!” Yaz answers. “But –”

“But I’m sure you could’ve found time to sort all this before now if you’d put your mind to it,” Grace answers, not unkind, but definitely not taking any nonsense. The Doctor huffs dramatically from where she’s perched in the back of the van, before reaching over to snatch the papers out of Yaz’s hands.

“Hey!” her friend protests. “I was sorting those!”

“They don’t need sorting! Who sorts things?” She shuffles the papers into a vaguely neater pile, before grabbing the folder she’d designated for the _Kerblam!_ case from where she’d stuffed it under a seat.

“Clearly you don’t, love,” Grace replies, picking up a notebook from the floor and idly flicking through it. The Doctor stills, watching her. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Grace – and even if she didn’t, it’s not like the woman would be able to parse anything from the circular code she uses for all her notes. No, it’s just…well, it’s _her_ notebook. _Her_ stuff. She supposes she’s never taken all that kindly to people rooting through her things.

Honestly, it’s a testament to how much she’s allowed these people into her heart that she’s even letting them _help her_ sort out the van.

Still, she reaches out her hand, palm open and expectant.

She may trust them, as much as she can. But her kind of trust can only run so deep.

Grace locks eyes with her, and there’s a slight flicker of understanding as she passes the notebook over.

“Come on, then!” says a voice suddenly, and the three of them turn to see Graham standing by the open doors at the back of the TARDIS, bag slung over his shoulder. Ryan stands behind him, peering in. “Aren’t you lot ready yet?”

Grace scoffs at that as she turns to them completely, clearly deciding the TARDIS is as tidy as they can get it for now. “Says the one who took forever to pack a bag.”

“Oi, it weren’t me that were taking so long!” Graham says, turning to point at Ryan. “It was this one! I was just waiting, being polite and all that!”

“No way, it was him,” Ryan insists, waving a hand. “He just spent about ten minutes trying to decide what to put in his emergency sandwich.”

“Well, it’s an important decision to make!”

“ _Yes,_ very important,” Yaz interrupts, and the Doctor can’t help but smile slightly at the way she tries to wrestle the conversation back under control. “But let’s get going, shall we? You can argue all about it on the way.”

Graham huffs. “Oh, alright then.” He holds out a hand. “Help me up, would you?”

“Not so fast, love,” Grace says, making her way out of the van. “I’ve got to come and say goodbye to you properly first.”

“Grace –” Graham protests, right as Ryan makes a disgusted noise and clambers in to the back himself. The Doctor just smiles to herself, before clambering over the seats and into the front, settling herself in front of the wheel. She pulls her phone out, and is examining the route to O’s place on the maps app when Yaz leans over, resting her elbows on the worn leather.

“Want some company up here?” she offers.

The Doctor can’t help the warmth of _belonging_ that blooms in her chest.

It’s a dangerous kind of feeling.

But she flashes a grin at Yaz. “‘Course I do.”

Once Yaz has jumped into the passenger seat beside her, and Graham and Ryan have settled in the back, the Doctor twists the key in the ignition and pulls out of the parking spot, managing to join in the others as they wave at Grace, where she stands on the doorstep, backlit by the warm yellow of the hallway light. The Doctor forces her gaze away, focusing on the road in front of her, before flicking her gaze to Yaz briefly, who has commandeered her phone and has taken up the position of _navigator._ The gentle blue of the phone screen picks out her features, and the Doctor can’t help but notice with a thrill of satisfaction that Yaz seems happier here, sitting in the front seat and driving headlong towards adventure, than she has anywhere else since the Doctor got back.

She turns back to the road again, before reaching down to switch on the radio.

The CD player clicks and whirrs, before playing the first few familiar bars of –

“ _Wait a minute,_ ” Graham says as _Dancing Queen_ wafts out through the speakers and Ryan howls with laughter. “Did you lot _steal my ABBA CD?”_

It’s about half an hour down the motorway when a warning light flashes on the TARDIS dashboard and the Doctor lets out a long groan.

“What is it?” Yaz asks, trepidation colouring her tone at the edges. “Something gone wrong?”

Behind her, the Doctor registers Ryan sitting forward from where he’d been arguing with Graham about the finer points of Swedish pop music.

“Nah, just running low on petrol,” the Doctor grumbles. “Should’ve filled up before we left! Ugh, and service station petrol is always so expensive.”

“Is there even a service station along here?” Ryan asks as Yaz sinks back in her seat, apparently relieved.

“Yeah, there’s one coming up in a few miles or so,” she tells them. “Good timing, actually.”

“As if there’s ever a good time to run out of petrol,” Graham counters. “Need us to chip in, Doc?”

“Nah, I got it,” she replies. The commission she got off the _Kerblam!_ case had been enough to cover her for a while at least – and if she can get a commission for this case too, she’ll definitely be alright. “Thanks, though.”

And she _is_ grateful for the offer. But – well, she’s got her pride, hasn’t she? That’s a bit of an obvious one.

Signs for the service station predictably show up after another minute or so, and the Doctor switches lanes before taking them smoothly up the slip-road and into the entrance, heading straight past the car park and towards the petrol station. Thankfully, it’s quiet, and she sidles up the TARDIS next to a pump before opening the door. Immediately, the smell of fuel hits her in the face.

“Won’t be a jiffy!” she says as she hops out, boots hitting the concrete with a satisfying _thump._ She shuts the door, just managing to catch Ryan muttering something about no-one ever saying ‘jiffy’ anymore before it clicks shut and she heads over to the pump. There’s a _clunk_ as she connects it to the fuel tank of the TARDIS, and then she spends the next couple of minutes staring morosely at the rapidly increasing price-of-sale and half-wishing she’d accepted Graham’s offer after all.

There’s a bit of a queue when she goes into the shop, and she ends up waiting by a strategically placed stand of chocolate. She considers it for a long moment, weighing up finances, before deciding to hell with it and grabbing a bag of chocolate buttons that she can share with the others for the rest of the trip. Then she pulls out her phone and opens WhatsApp, quickly tapping a message to O.

**The Doctor  
** _What chocolate do you like?_

Then she frowns.

**The Doctor  
** _Assuming you like chocolate here.  
Do you like chocolate? _

**The Doctor  
** _I feel like maybe we can’t be friends  
if you don’t like chocolate _

**The Doctor  
** _Or maybe we could be, if it meant I  
got to eat all of your chocolate_

**The Doctor  
** _To help you out_

**The Doctor  
** _Like a good friend :)_

The queue moves forward by one person, and by the time she looks down again, O is typing.

**O!**   
_I eat chocolate_

**O!**   
_Stopping for snacks on the road or something?_

She smiles, grabbing him a bar.

**The Doctor  
** _Or something._

**The Doctor  
** _We’re nearly halfway there now!  
Just low on petrol. _

_  
  
_The queue moves forward again – she’s next up. She glances down at her phone again.

**O!**   
_I await your arrival_

And then:

**O!**   
_Please don’t eat chocolate and  
drive at the same time_

She just grins to herself, before person at the till moves away, and she deposits her things on the counter in front of her and tells the cashier the pump number. It’s not until she’s stepped out of the shop that her phone begins to buzz in her hand, and she glances down at it, expecting it to be O.

But it’s not messages – it’s a phone call, from a mobile number she doesn’t recognise.

Unfortunately, in her line of work, she can’t afford to ignore it on that basis alone. She answers it, pressing the device to her ear. 

“Hello?”

For a moment, she only hears a few desperate huffs of breath, like the person on the other end has been running. And then – “Doctor?”

Her blood runs cold. “Ada?”

“Doctor,” she says again, her voice choked with panic – and yes, it’s _definitely_ Ada, no doubt about it. “Doctor, they’re here.”

“Who’s here?” she asks, pulse thumping in her throat. She moves to the side, out of the way of the door.

“The ones who took –” she says, before cutting off suddenly. For a moment, the end is so quiet that the Doctor can’t help but think the worst.

“ _Ada?_ ” she presses.

“Who killed that woman,” Ada continues in a rush, her voice barely a whisper, and the Doctor can _hear_ the naked fear in her voice. “I thought there was someone following me all evening and then they just tried to grab me but I ran and I think I lost them but –”

“Ada, listen to me,” she interrupts, her tone firm. “You need to find somewhere safe to go. Is there anyone –”

“I don’t –” she starts, before breaking off. “Can I – could I come to you?”

A bloom of guilt bursts in her chest, pressing against her ribs like it’s going to break them apart. She’d let her, she’d do it in a _heartbeat,_ but – “I’m not in Sheffield. I’m sorry, I – my home isn’t even in Sheffield, but –”

She pauses, a thought striking her – Ada could stay with at the O’Brien’s. Grace would take her in for the night in a heartbeat, the Doctor knows it for sure. After all, she practically did the same for _her,_ and that was back when she couldn’t even remember her own _name._

But she knows, like the surety of a stone sinking in deep pit, that whoever is after Ada now will follow her, if they see where she goes.

She’d lead them straight to Grace.

And then – what would they do?

Take them both?

_Kill_ them both?

Her mind races, potential solutions swirling through her mind.

“You need to get to somewhere with lots of people,” she says. “If there’s too many witnesses, then it might scare them off.”

She _hopes._

She thinks of Sheffield at this time of night – there’d be people in the city centre, wouldn’t there? People going out of the town, getting into trouble. Yaz has ranted plenty about the chaos of her night shifts before now. Surely there’ll be somewhere she can go, hide in plain sight –

She realises Ada hasn’t said anything for a good few seconds.

“Ada,” she says urgently, panic beginning to creep into her tone.

“I heard something,” comes the whispered, terrified reply.

The Doctor swallows. “Ok. Just – stay there. Don’t move.”

Ada doesn’t say anything.

The Doctor doesn’t think she’s ever felt so powerless.

For a few moments, there’s silence, save Ada’s rapid breathing. The Doctor stands stock still and silent, like maybe whoever is hunting her friend will hear her through the phone if she dares make a sound. Like maybe they’ll hear her heartbeat if it beats too loud.

Then, there’s a _crash._

Ada’s breath hitches.

Then there’s chaos. Broken, panicked sobs. Shouts. Movement, bangs – the rustle of fabric. A loud _SMACK,_ like the phone has just been dropped to the floor.

A scream, abruptly cut short.

“ _Ada,_ ” the Doctor says, unable to do _anything._ “ _Ada!”_

But Ada doesn’t answer.

There’s nothing. Just the sound of people moving above the ambience of Sheffield at night.

“ _Ada,_ ” she says once more, like it’ll change anything.

Then, there’s a sound. Scraping. Someone’s picked up the phone from wherever it must have dropped.

She doesn’t even dare to breathe.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, a considering grunt. And then –

A dial tone.

It whines for about five seconds before she can move the phone away from her ear. She stares at the screen, like maybe it’ll hold answers, or a solution, or a way to turn back time so she could just leave Sheffield a bit later, so she could have _been there,_ so she could have _done something_ –

“Doctor?” comes a voice, and she jolts, looking up to see Yaz standing beside her. She hadn’t even noticed her getting out of the car. “Are you alright?”

The Doctor just stares at her for a moment.

“I’m –” she begins, not even sure how to answer.

She stares at the phone in her hand, watching as her fingers tighten around it.

“I think I just listened to someone get abducted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta: there's no motorway between Sheffield and Manchester  
> Me: in THIS universe there is!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed!! Let me know what you thought! Things are actually HAPPENING NOW yes we love to see it. And alas...I'm so sorry, but Grace does end up somewhat sidelined for the rest of this adventure, only because I was juggling too many characters. But do not fear! This is definitely not the last you'll see of her - in this fic and in the rest of this au
> 
> Also happy christmas eve, if you celebrate! (and a fine 24th December if not). I am currently manically writing another oneshot, which I will HOPEFULLY post tomorrow as a christmas gift to you all. It's extremely un-christmasy. In fact, it's very angsty HAHA but I'm excited about it! It's currently....not finished so we'll see how it goes. It is imminent, though!


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Sorry this chapter is a tad late, but here we go –

**_26 th September, 2018_ **

**_11:28 PM_ **

“You alright there, love?” comes a voice.

The Doctor looks up from where she’s perched on the couch, her head still aching. Grace stands in the doorway, the light from the kitchen piercingly bright behind her compared to the darkness of the living room. The Doctor can’t make out her face in the gloom – but Grace doesn’t come closer yet. Giving her space.

She can’t help but feel grateful for that.

“Fine,” she says, managing something close to a smile. “Great, actually. Feeling a lot – a lot more like it.”

She doesn’t like the dark.

She can’t remember why.

A car drives past, the lights catching through the window and dancing across the wall for less than a second. She can’t help but flinch.

Lights in the dark.

For some reason, that makes it even worse.

She reaches up, hand instinctively going to her head. She knocks against the bandage that’s still wrapped there, carefully positioned by kind hands.

She’s glad she’d been barely conscious when they did it.

She – can’t quite remember _why_ she feels that way either. All she knows is that the thought of someone touching her sends shivers across her skin. Like touch would only bring her pain.

She doesn’t realise she’s been staring at the wall until she registers the movement beside her – Grace is standing at the edge of the coffee table, looking at her. She glances at her, still not able to make out her face in the dim light. Not that she seems to be very good at expressions. That’s one of the things she’s noticed in the last few hours of her existence.

The last few hours.

In so many ways, they feel like the first.

“Love,” says Grace, her voice impossibly kind. “I just want to check your head again, if that’s alright? Unless you’ve changed your mind about going to A&E.”

“No hospitals,” she says on an instinct that’s as foreign to her as everything else – but it sits in her gut, stubborn, and she can’t find it in her to ignore it.

She hears Grace exhale in a way that isn’t quite a sigh. “Alright. Then you’ll let me take a look? Make sure it’s not getting any worse?”

At the very idea of it, a sharp spike of anxiety pierces her lungs. She clenches and unclenches her hands – once, twice, a nervous rhythm. She pretends that it actually calms her down. “Alright.”

She can feel Grace’s relieved smile. “Let’s go in the kitchen,” she says, her voice quiet. Soft. Like she doesn’t want to spook her.

She sighs, before pushing herself up on shaky legs. She manages to stay standing, even as the world bucks and sways around her. Like she’s on some sort of rollercoaster ride she didn’t want to get on. A wind-tossed boat that she can’t get off.

A crashing train.

“Need a hand?” Grace asks, already reaching out an arm.

“‘M fine,” she says. “I got it.”

She _does_ have it. In a couple of moments, she’s able to walk towards the light of the kitchen, even as she has to squint against it. _Gah._ She can barely keep her eyes open for the way it stabs at her, driving ice-picks into her eyes and twisting them with a sadistic kind of malice. She falters, gripping the doorframe for balance and she screws her eyes completely shut.

“You’re sure you’re fine?” Grace asks, the amused tone only a thin veil over the concern.

“Yep,” she replies, strained. “As good as I can be. Given the circumstances I think I’m doing rather well, actually.”

“You are,” Grace says, and she hears the shift as the woman moves closer. Gently, so gently, she puts her hand on her shoulder, comforting. The Doctor can’t help the way her body tenses, just ever so slightly.

“Let me help you, love,” Grace says. Like she wants to so badly, but she’s waiting for permission. Waiting for her to let her.

And for some reason the idea of needing _help_ grates against her, like a slight against her honour, her capability. But the truth of it is, she can’t really open her eyes right now and she doesn’t know the layout of the kitchen well enough to find the table on her own.

“Yeah,” she says. “Please.”

She feels Grace’s relief through the hand on her shoulder, before it squeezes her slightly and begins to guide her into the room. It takes a moment for her to release her white-knuckled grip on the doorframe, but then she lets herself be led until she bumps into one of the chairs around the table.

“Just here,” says Grace. “Sit yourself down.”

She does, immediately slumping forward over the table, listening to the gentle clatter as Grace gets items out of cupboards. She puts her hands over her eyes, like maybe she can press the photosensitive headache out of her mind with the power of her will. Her will seems pretty powerful, from what she’s seen of it. Or maybe it’s just a lack of self-preservation and a self-righteous determination that’s been dialled all the way up. She doesn’t think that jumping up, taking charge and trying to save the day is a normal reaction to smashing your head so hard you forget your own name. She _did_ save the day though. She thinks. Did a good job of it too. Hopefully.

Some people are dead.

But – but she saved someone.

She –

“You nearly died,” she says, the realisation suddenly hitting her through the haze of concussion. “ _You –_ Grace, you could have died tonight.”

“Don’t you worry about that, love,” comes the reply – but she can hear it, in her voice. She’s shaken – and someone should be looking after _her_ , not the other way around, she thinks. Not the way it is right now.

There’s a scrape of chair against linoleum floor, and she feels Grace’s presence close to her. “I didn’t die, that’s all that matters. Didn’t even touch me. Just a close shave, that’s all.”

A close shave. She doesn’t know a thing about quantum physics, doesn’t remember if she’s ever learnt about it, but she must have at some point because she immediately thinks about many-worlds theory. The idea of reality splitting based on could-haves and maybes, every potential possibility existing somewhere, somehow. Grace’s _close shave_ makes her mind flip through all the parallel worlds where things didn’t end so well – Grace hurt, Grace convulsing as the electricity runs through her, Grace dead on the floor –

“Hun,” says Grace, breaking her out of her thoughts. That kind hand in on her shoulder again. So strange, she thinks a little deliriously, for someone associate touch so much with comfort that they can’t help but give it.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she says in the end, voice quiet.

There’s a pause, just for a moment.

“Me too.” She can almost hear Grace pull her smile back on. “Let’s check you out then.”

She moves her hands away from her face, allowing Grace to look at the bandage. Because of the light, she has to keep her eyes shut, which means she can’t help but flinch the moment she feels the fingers in her hair.

“Sorry,” she mutters, gripping the table to keep herself still.

“No need to apologise, love,” Grace assures her, carefully unwinding the wrapping. “How are you feeling? You’ve still got a headache?”

“Yeah,” she says, keeping her eyes closed. “And, uh – dizzy too.”

She feels as most of the bandage falls away, and Grace gets down to the gauze that is just over the injury in question.

“And your memories?” she asks. “Still nothing?”

“Oh. A few things have come back. I remember my name now.”

“Your name? That’s brilliant.” She sounds so genuinely delighted it catches her off guard.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, before clearing her throat. “I’m the Doctor.”

The hands at her temple falter. “Are you sure about that, love?”

“It’s not my _birth_ name,” she explains, biting back a frustrated noise. “Not completely sure on that one yet. It’s just – a name I gave myself. It’s what I use for my work, I think.”

“Your work?”

“Yeah. Investigative journalism.” It had come back to her about half an hour ago, pieces slotting into place. “I was investigating those people before. Explains why I knew all that stuff about them and what to do. I think I use _The Doctor_ as my penname. I was gonna look it up but – I dunno where my phone is.”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy looking at a bright screen right now, but I can get Ryan to look things up for you.” Her hands are moving again, peeling away at the padding. It tugs at where the stickiness of the wound has dried up, and she winces. “Sorry, love.”

“It’s fine.”

There’s a pause as Grace focuses, reaching over to grab something which she uses to dabs at the injury. “This looks like it’s doing alright. Not inflamed or nothing.”

She doesn’t say anything, just focuses on trying to tamp down the nausea that swirls in her stomach.

“So – before…did you just go by ‘the Doctor’, then?”

She scrunches up her face. “Think so. Don’t think I like my real name all that much. Whatever it is.”

She can practically feel Grace frown as she reaches for clean dressing. “So, you chose ‘the Doctor’ instead, then?”

She hums. “Guess I did.” That feels right, anyway. Feels like the sort of thing she would do.

But then, she’s not completely sure _what_ she would do, is she?

“Why?”

Her brain, still struggling under the weight of the concussion, doesn’t quite manage to keep up. “Huh?”

“Why’d you pick ‘Doctor’? Rather than just any other name?”

Her face twists against the question. There’s an answer, she’s sure of it. It’s lingering, right there at the dark, infinite edges of her mind – in the waves that lap at the shores of her consciousness, the bottomless lake that goes down, down, down, further than she will ever be able to dive, and she’s caught in the riptide without an oxygen tank.

But the answer isn’t just in her memories, scattered to the wind. It’s also in what she’s done in these first few hours of her second life – in jumping headfirst into danger, just so she can drag people she doesn’t even know to safety and taking down those who dare to hurt others for their own gain.

Even without the name she was born with, she can make sense of the name she _has._

“I chose Doctor,” she answers, “because –”

“– I have to _fix this._ ”

It’s probably the thirteenth time she’s said it since she got back in the TARDIS. Yaz sighs from where she sits behind the wheel, having made the executive decision to take over driving for the rest of the trip. The Doctor risks a glance in her friend’s direction, and catches a glimpse of a deep-seated weariness that hides in the contours of her face.

“I _know,_ ” Yaz replies, the answer worn with overuse. “But –”

“There’s nothing you can do from here, cockle,” Graham says, taking over. There’s a creak of leather as he leans forward, his hand resting on the edge of her seat. “And there isn’t much point in racing all the way back to Sheffield now, is there, eh?”

“We’ve done all we can,” Yaz affirms. The Doctor sinks in her chair, leaning her head against the window and looking out at the cat’s eyes that line the edge of the road. The thing is, they’re right. Yaz called it into the station straight away, so even if they went back right away, they’d only find the scene cordoned off, barred from their influence.

That is, if the police even decide to _do_ anything.

If they can even _find_ where Ada’s phone lies, abandoned on some grimy pavement.

She has no leads, no evidence, no _nothing._ Just a phone call where all she could do was stand there and _listen,_ miles away and unable to do _anything_ to prevent what had occurred.

No. If she goes back to Sheffield now, she’ll just feel even more helpless than she already does.

Besides. She can’t abandon this _other_ case either. There are ten people, hopefully still alive, who are being subjected to experiments in VOR’s lab. She thinks of Hidayat, wondering what’s happened to his missing sister. She has a chance to get into VOR – this interview with Barton that she’s not stupid enough to think would be easy to get again if she throws it away this time. She has to keep going, keep raking through the muck until she gets to whatever ugly truths are buried underneath.

She closes her eyes, rhythmically clenching and unclenching her fists.

“I know,” she murmurs. “It just…”

There’s silence for a moment, like they’re waiting for her to finish. 

“It feels wrong,” she says eventually, eyes opening to watch the taillights of the cars in front of them. Her hands still in her lap. “To do nothing. To just keep going as normal like nothing’s happened.”

Behind her, she hears Ryan hum in agreement.

“Sometimes you have to, though,” he says.

She supposes he would know better than anyone else in the van.

No-one says much after that.

The rest of the journey passes quickly, the endless stretch of motorway gradually peeling off into the outskirts of Greater Manchester. The Doctor has been reassigned from driver to navigator, and focusing on that rather than Ada helps makes her spiralling thoughts just a bit more manageable. Through the numbness, that sense of anticipation she’d felt earlier in the day even begins to creep back as they approach the address that O had given her. The liminality of long, dark roads have yielded to the golden lamplight of a small town, and it almost feels like they’re making progress again. Like they’re _getting_ somewhere.

She tries to tell herself that even if she can’t go back for Ada right now, at least she can help these other people. Here, she actually has a _plan,_ has leads she can follow through, has _evidence._ Here, she actually has a chance, rather than just stumbling blindly through the dark, hoping she’ll trip on something that’ll give her the answers she needs.

It doesn’t make it easy to accept, though.

O’s house, it turns out, lies just outside the small town that they drive through, out in the fields that lie beyond. There are no streetlights out here, and as Yaz pulls up onto the gravelly driveway and the Doctor steps out, the first things she does is crane her head back to look at the sky. The firmament above is filled with a scattering of stars – not crammed, like she’s seen in the really remote parts, but far more than they’d ever get to see in Sheffield.

Behind her, she hears the _clunk_ of doors shutting as the others get out, followed by a low whistle from Ryan.

“Whoa,” he says, and she glances around to see he’s looking up too.

“Good, isn’t it?” she grins at him.

“It’s alright,” Graham mutters, clearly bothered. “Don’t you think it’s a bit weird, though? This guy living out here all on his own?”

Yaz hums, clearly unsure. “I mean, maybe he just likes keeping to himself.”

“I’ll bet,” Graham replies. “Say, Doc, how well do you know this guy?”

“Weeeell…” She draws out the word, wondering how best to put it. Because the _truth_ is that she’s spent the last couple of years _emailing_ him, and only actually met him _once,_ less than a week ago, and that’s probably not going to go down well. “He’s helped me on a case before this one! Put his neck out for me quite a bit, actually. And I’ve talked with him a lot. Don’t worry, he’s fine. Just not exactly the most social kind.”

“Well, that’s one way to describe me,” comes a voice from around the side of the house. The four of them turn to see the figure who steps out of the shadows, the moonlight casting his face in stark chiaroscuro.

The Doctor smiles. “Hi O.”

O just nods, almost sheepish. “Doctor.” His gaze flicks over the others. “And I presume this is Yaz, Ryan and Graham?”

“You know us?” Yaz asks – but she seems more curious than suspicious, the Doctor thinks.

“The Doctor’s spoken a lot about you.” He holds up his hands, a smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry, all good things. Fancy a cuppa?”

“Very much,” the Doctor replies, already striding forwards. She feels like she’s due one, after that phone call. She stops short at the door, realising it’s locked, but O quickly comes to her aid and swings it open. There’s that strange flicker in her chest as the hallway light spills out onto the porch – light in the dark – but she quickly pushes it down and steps inside, curiosity taking over her.

O hadn’t been kidding in his email when he said his place was a mess. The corridor is lined with piles of books, folders, and various things besides, and the first room she turns into – which appears to be a sitting room – isn’t that much better. There is a sense of _some_ attempt at tidiness, with stacks of papers pushed to the sides of the room, trying for ‘out of the way’ but not quite managing it. She glances across the open-plan space, which leads to a dining table that is covered in wires, pulled apart electronics and a laptop running some kind of program. O comes up behind her, moving past to pick up a handful of books that are strewn on the sofa to her right.

“Cosy,” she comments, trying for bright.

“You mean messy,” O says, seeing right through it. She can’t help but smile.

“You’re right, I do.” She glances around, stepping further into the room and shoving her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Didn’t realise you were this much of a hoarder.”

“What is all this stuff?” asks Yaz from the doorway to the sitting room, taking the place in with interest and mild horror.

“My work, mostly,” O says as he crosses over to one of the bookshelves, considering where to place the books in his hands. “I like to keep hard copies of everything. It’s – well, more secure, I suppose would be the best way to put it. And then some of it are things that interest me – research, some things relevant to my projects, some things not so much.” He stretches around a pile of folders and magazines to slot one of the books into a space on the shelf. “I did _try_ to clear up a bit.”

“Well, we appreciate the effort, son,” Graham says, taking Yaz’s place in the doorway as she enters the room, sounding a tad unconvinced.

“Oh, um,” O says, pausing slightly, one last book in his hand. “You’re welcome?” He glances down at the book, before deciding to give up with it and lying it on top of some others. “Drinks, then. Who wants tea?”

The time it takes for the kettle to boil and drinks to be poured into cups finds them all sitting around O’s cluttered dining-table-turned-workspace, whilst the man in question tries desperately to clear it – somewhat. Whatever he’s doing with the computer and the devices attached to it appears to be in the process of running, and he’s clearly reluctant to move it. Even with the threat of spilt drinks.

“Sit on that side, if you could,” he instructs Graham, pointing to seat opposite. Ryan seems to take note and elects to leave his cup on the window sill whilst he stands by the wall, well out of the hazard zone.

“What is all this, then?” the Doctor asks from where she’s perched, the closest to O, but still away from his computer. He clearly trusts her with her tea slightly more than the others – but only slightly. There’s a small portion of the table in front of her which is clear, but it’s quickly overrun by a jungle of twisted cables and spare parts. Amongst it, her gaze catches on the shape of a small key card, which has been placed on a small, contactless device that is plugged into O’s laptop. “This is the security card for the R&D lab?”

“Exactly,” O confirms, taking his eyes off the screen in front of him to glance at her briefly. “I’m trying to adjust the access capabilities. I told you back in Sheffield – I figured if I could tweak the information held in the microchip, I can give it access to more places than my normal card can get into.” A small smile quirks at his lips. “I also thought it might be useful if I can edit the code, add some kind of encryption so it doesn’t let the main system know which card has accessed it, whilst still letting us into wherever we want to go. Thought it might help cover our tracks.”

The Doctor raised her eyebrows. “Really? You can do that?”

O shrugs, his smile tugging upwards slightly, almost shy. “Well, it would only take a zero knowledge protocol good enough to stand up to the complexity of VOR’s systems. Which isn’t all that simple, really, but I definitely think it’s possible. I’ve been working on it for a day or so now.”

“Plus you know VOR’s systems,” the Doctor says, nodding.

O nods too. “Exactly. Which means I’ve got the inside knowledge, at least.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me,” Graham says, gesturing with the hand that isn’t wrapped around his mug. “What’s all this for? I thought you was just having an interview with this Barton fella.”

Yaz scoffs at that. “When is the Doctor _ever_ just having an interview with someone she thinks is up to no good?”

“Someone I _know_ is up to no good,” she corrects with a flourish, flashing Yaz a grin. “But I’ve gotta get a sense of him before I reveal the truth about this whole thing, haven’t I?”

“You ain’t explaining any of that stuff though,” Ryan points out, indicating to the mess on the table. “Like, what’s a zero knowledge protocol or whatever you said?”

“It’s a kind of cryptography method,” O explains. “Where you can get a system to test another system by having it pass a test, or crack a code, without actually revealing how it did it. Hence ‘zero knowledge’. In basic terms, it means that if we use this card to open a door, VOR’s system will know the locks were opened by a legitimate user, but it won’t know the exact code that was used, and so won’t be able to determine whose card was used.”

“So it’ll keep them from realising you’re helping us,” Yaz says, following through.

“That’s exactly it,” the Doctor finishes. “Because if they realise it’s him –”

“Let’s just say I’d rather avoid finding out exactly what they’ll do,” O cuts in, expression growing more sombre, creasing into a frown as he stares at his screen.

“We won’t let that happen,” the Doctor assures. “Will we, fam?”

“Nope.”

“No way.”

“Absolutely not.”

The Doctor watches the gentle smile creep again across O’s face. She smiles herself, before taking a sip of her tea – and then splutters.

“How many sugars did you put in this?” she questions. O stares at her, doe eyed.

“I think two?”

“ _Two?”_ she repeats, absolutely appalled. Beside her, Graham just laughs.

“What?” O says. “I thought you were joking when you said seven.”

“Oh, son, I wish she were,” Graham says, still chuckling to himself. The Doctor herself tries to resist the urge to pout, and isn’t all the successful.

“There’s some more in the kitchen, if you really want some?” O says.

“Oh, I definitely do,” she says, immediately standing up and going through the adjacent doorway. She returns with the _correct_ amount of sugar in her drink, swirling the spoon around pointedly. She catches O watching her, looking peculiarly _fond,_ before quickly turning his gaze back to his computer screen. She can’t help but be both amused and mildly bewildered, before glancing back at the others as she sits down in her chair again. She looks over at Ryan just in time to see him hide a yawn behind his hand. She hears Graham hum thoughtfully, clearly having seen it too.

“Might want to turn in for the night,” he tells his grandson. Ryan pulls a face.

“‘s not _that_ late,” he protests.

Graham scoffs. “Doesn’t matter how late it is if you’re yawning!”

“Yeah, well, some of us ain’t old and can take it,” Ryan shoots back, teasing.

The Doctor watches Yaz hide a smile behind her mug as she takes another sip, whilst Graham splutters in overdramatic offense.

“Excuse you –!”

“I can show you to the guest bedroom,” O offers, tapping the table absentmindedly. Four beats, two silent, twice over. “Although two of you will have to share…and there’s also the sofa.” He shrugs. “One of you could also use my bed, I suppose.”

“But what about you?” Yaz asks.

“Oh, well, I need to finish programming this zero knowledge protocol. It’ll probably take the rest of the night,” he answers.

“But you need to sleep!” Yaz protests. O shrugs.

“I want to get it finished,” he explains. “Don’t worry – it’s not exactly the _first_ time I’ve pulled an all-nighter.”

The Doctor can’t help but smile, amused – because she _knows_ it’s not the first time. More than once, they’ve pulled an all-nighter concurrently. The first time was when they were both working on the case where they first met, with O trying to pull all the information he had together into a format that the Doctor could look through, and then on the other end the Doctor had been rapidly reading up and researching the ins and outs of the engineering work his company was completing, just so she could understand the notes. They’d ended up messaging each other throughout, for more than just sending each other their work so far. After that, there’d been several times where the Doctor had been up late writing articles for looming deadlines, and O had work quotas that he needed to meet, and – well, they’d kept each other company, as much as you can through texts and pixels on a screen. There’s something about it, though, she thinks. That silent camaraderie, of knowing the other person is there too, still awake and typing manically at their own keyboard in another room.

“Want some company?” she offers, and he looks up, meeting her gaze. She can see on his face that he’s remembering the same thing she is.

But before he can say anything, Yaz immediately protests. “No! You’re still jetlagged!”

“Yeah mate, I bet you didn’t sleep enough the other day,” Ryan adds.

The Doctor gives him a look of utter betrayal. “ _Ryan…_ ”

He just gives her a smile. “Just saying the truth.”

“ _Ugh,_ ” she groans, going for overdramatic in the hopes it might distract them from the fact she _is_ a little tired, maybe, but that’s _completely_ irrelevant. “Graham, help me out here.”

“Sorry, cockle,” Graham replies. “I’m with them. You look like you could use a good forty winks.”

“Forty winks is _far_ too many winks, in my opinion,” she grumbles. She hears O give an amused hum, before he gets up from his computer.

“I’ll show you the rooms anyway,” he says, “and then you can decide who’s going where.”

He shows them upstairs, quickly taking them around. Unsurprisingly, the bedrooms are just as messy at the rest of the house, with the spare room that houses a double bed definitely being used as a glorified store room. But it’s manageable, and the fam seem rather grateful to have beds at _all._ They’re all probably remembering far too well the number of times they’ve had to camp out in the TARDIS overnight on some adventures.

Speaking of which. “I’ll just go and sleep in the TARDIS after I’ve helped O for a bit,” she says to Yaz, as Ryan and Graham roll a blanket as a divider for the bed they’re going to share. Yaz has elected to take O’s bed, under the condition that he takes the sofa once he’s got the programming finished.

Yaz looks at her, somehow hopeful and unconvinced at the same time. “Will you really?”

“Sure I will,” the Doctor says, starting to head down the stairs. “Honest. I mean, I’ve gotta be well rested to talk to Barton tomorrow, haven’t I?”

“Right,” Yaz says as she follows, somewhat pointedly. “So why don’t you just go to bed now?”

The Doctor makes a vague noise, heading towards the front door.

“Come on,” Yaz says, just behind her. “Would sleeping for once really hurt that much?”

“Yes!” she protests, opening the door. Yaz follows on as she heads towards where the TARDIS is parked to grab the bags for the boys. “Sleep is boring! Especially when I’ve got more important things to be doing.”

“Like watching someone else do computer programming.”

“Like keeping my _friend_ company,” she corrects, pausing as she pulls her keys out of her pocket. She looks over at Yaz, trying not to sound like she’s pleading. “Look, he’s helping me so much with this case. Isn’t this the least I can do? Besides, I can do more planning for tomorrow while I wait.”

“But you need to be able to stay _awake_ tomorrow,” Yaz counters as the Doctor unlocks the door and pulls it open, reaching in to pull out the bags. Her hands find Ryan’s first, and she passes it back to Yaz, who takes it. “And I think –”

Yaz cuts herself off abruptly. The Doctor stops reaching for Graham’s bag and turns her head to look back at her.

“What?” she asks. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Yaz._ ”

She watches the indecision flash across her friend’s face, before determination quickly wins out. “I think you’re mainly doing this to distract yourself from that phone call.”

The Doctor scowls, turning away again and leaning into the van, catching hold of Graham’s bag handle and yanking it out. Irritation bristles in her chest, hiding the guilt and _fear_ that attempt to bubble up. “ _No._ I’m just working on _this_ case. Since you all made it pretty clear there’s nothing I can do about Ada.”

She pushes Graham’s bag into Yaz’s arms too, before clambering in to get their own bags.

“I know that,” Yaz says. “I just – oh, I dunno. You need to get _some_ sleep.”

“And I will!” She finds the bags, pulling one over each shoulder before she returns to the door, hopping out onto the driveway. She pulls on a mask of a smile that she wishes was more genuine as she moves past, heading back to the house. “Promise I will.”

Behind her, she hears Yaz sigh, followed by the sound of footsteps down the path. But she doesn’t say anything more on it after that.

The Doctor tries to take that as something of a victory.

But between the frustration and the guilt still churning in her gut, she isn’t really successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts off the second act of this fic, which in my head is dubbed ‘the part where stuff actually happens’. Naturally, that meant I had to start it with a chapter where pretty much nothing happens HAHA
> 
> But anyway! The fam meets O, hooray! All the stuff about Zero Knowledge Protocols is probably wildly inaccurate, but they are a real thing in cryptography – I actually found out about them via an excellent Stargate fanfic called Mathematique, which you can find [right here](https://cleanwhiteroom-archived.tumblr.com/) (along with a ton of other stuff by that author). In fact, another fic by this author (called Out of Many Scattered Things – a Pacific Rim fic) inspired the whole thing of O and the Doctor having a long email chain haha. Maybe one day I’ll do what this author did and actually write out the start of the email chain and post it as a fic, but proooobably I won’t because it’s going to be FOREVER before I actually finish this series enough to write extras RIP
> 
> But anyway! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter – let me know what you think! ALSO WHO WATCHED THE SPECIAL BECAUSE AAAAAAAAAAAAAH????


	9. Chapter Eight

Morning sees a soft, cool light spilling through the windows and into the house, casting the scattered chaos of wires, computers and notes into gentle relief. The view from the kitchen window reveals a clear winter sky and frost settling across every surface. The Doctor considers it for a moment, before the kettle begins to rumble and splutter. She moves quickly, making what’s probably her fifth cup of tea since she arrived the previous night.

Despite Yaz’s concerns, she _had_ managed to get some sleep.

Some.

In fact, O had even got some – is currently asleep, in fact, hunched over the one bit of clear table space whilst he waits for the computer programme to finish finalising. He’d insisted that she took the sofa rather than going and sleeping in the TARDIS, despite her saying it was _fine,_ it’s not like she hasn’t done it a billion times before. But – well, the house _is_ warmer. And so, she’d accepted, eventually.

She heads back to the table with her drink, sitting down by her computer and continuing to read the article she’d been working through before she’d decided tea was in order. This time, it’s stuff about cyberbullying – not actually related to the case, but she needs to pretend like it _is_ for the interview she’s having with Barton later today. She’s already made a bunch of notes – written in normal writing, as opposed to her circular cipher. Just in case Barton looks at it – she doesn’t want him to think she’s hiding anything.

The cipher itself is somewhat of a mystery to her. She’d discovered it when her head was still bandaged and her memory was still full of gaping holes, a couple of days after the crash itself. She’d been flicking through her notebook whilst she’d sat on the O’Brien’s sofa – it had been one of the only possessions she had at the time, and thus one of the only ties to the person she’d been before. And within it she’d found pages – _pages upon pages –_ of notes in an intricate, circular cipher that she didn’t recognise, but found that she could _read._

She’d run extensive searches on it, of course – and even if she hadn’t known it at the time, she’s _good_ at research, and those skills hadn’t been hindered at all by the fact she barely knew her own name. And yet she’d come up with nothing. Even trawling through cryptography databases hadn’t turned up anything – not even a cipher that looked _vaguely_ similar. She hadn’t been quite sure what to make of it at first. But as her memories had crawled back, a sense of _ownership_ had begun to accompany those swirling circular symbols that littered her pages. She’d come to the conclusion that it must be a cipher of her own invention, created to keep her notes secure from prying eyes.

In all fairness, it did _sound_ like the sort of thing she’d come up with. And it’s certainly come in handy, from what she can remember.

It’s about quarter of an hour later that O’s computer pings, announcing the completion of the program. The sound makes him jolt awake, and he looks up blearily. His gaze lands on her first, and a strange expression flickers across his face, before he shakes his head and blinks, waking up a bit more.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she says, taking a gulp of her tea and flashing him a grin. He blinks again at her, before sitting himself up and looking at his computer screen.

“Says the one who snored,” he mutters, and as her mouth falls open in aghast indignation, the corner of his lip tugs slightly, hiding a mischievous smile.

“I don’t snore!” she protests.

“How would you know?” O replies, looking a bit pleased with himself as he taps at his computer keyboard. “You’re always asleep when you do it.”

“Because I know I don’t!” she splutters, even though she knows at this point he’s just messing with her. He _is_ messing with her, right?

“If you say so,” he responds, unable to prevent himself smiling now, all amused and soft edges. She kicks him under the table.

“Arsehole,” she grumbles good-naturedly.

“Now, now,” comes another voice, and the Doctor turns to see Graham standing in the doorway, looking humoured by their antics. “None of that. The kids are still asleep.”

“How long have you been standing there?” the Doctor says, narrowing her eyes at him with intense suspicion.

“Oh, not long,” he says with an air of saccharine innocence, which just makes the Doctor even _more_ concerned that he’d come in before, when she was still passed out on the sofa – but then discards the idea immediately, because there’s no way that man would have stood in the doorway and dropped eaves whilst she was in the kitchen making a cup of _tea_ , instead of poking his head round the door and asking for one himself.

Speaking of which. “Want a cuppa? Kettle’s just boiled.”

She glances at both as she speaks, directing the question at each of them. Graham nods, already pushing himself away from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he replies heartily, already making his way into the kitchen. The Doctor can’t help but smile, before glancing at O. He seems to consider it for a moment, and then shrugs.

“Oh, why not,” he says, and her smile only widens.

The next half an hour or so sees the others wake and come down to join them, and O pauses in his work briefly so he can produce breakfast, which turns out to be mostly just toast – and, to Graham’s horror, Weetabix that O cheerfully spreads with Marmite. But Graham only really gets chance to say that it’s as bad as the Doctor’s seven sugars before they have to start getting ready to go. O needs to get into work on time, and the Doctor had offered to give him a lift whilst they’d both been awake that night. It makes the most sense, giving them time to discuss how their plan for the day is going to work whilst O directs them where they need to go. There _is_ the slight issue of VOR noticing one of its scientists hopping out of the van of the journalist coming to grill them, but O had assured her that if he gets out before they actually approach the site, it should be fine. It seems a little at odds with his paranoia over the last few days – like back in Sheffield, when it had almost seemed like he’d expected Barton to appear out of the bushes. But she trusts him – trusts his judgement. And it _does_ give them more time to coordinate before they go into the hornet’s nest.

“What time’s this interview, then?” Yaz asks as she clambers into the TARDIS, this time sitting in the back. O has taken the front passenger seat instead, and is struggling to shove his computer into his rucksack after hurriedly yanking it off the table, quickly pulling out a bunch of wires before he’d followed the rest of them out the door. The Doctor clicks her seatbelt on, before reaching over to him and pulling out a wire he’d missed that had been poking out, foiling his efforts. The computer suddenly slips in easy, and he gives her a sheepish smile.

His trick with the spare key-card isn’t quite finished yet – he still needs to do some final tweaks before uploading the final information onto it. But that’s a job for this evening, he’s assured them. He can do it in time.

The Doctor knows he will.

“Around ten-ish,” the Doctor responds. “Actually, we’re meeting at ten on the dot, but –” she makes a vague circular gesture with her hand “– he said something about a whistle-stop tour of the facility, so I expect the interview isn’t going to be straight away.”

Of course, for her, her work will start the moment she sets foot in that place. She’ll be taking in everything, every minute detail, every slip of his tongue – anything that helps prove there’s more going on than meets the eye.

“And then we’re going back again after, aren’t we?” Yaz asks, as the Doctor starts the engine. “So we can look at the places he won’t show us.”

“Exactly, Yaz,” the Doctor replies, glancing over her shoulder as she reverses out the drive and onto the road, the TARDIS making its familiar groaning noises. “We’ll go again after dark, when they’ve mostly shut up shop.” She glances at O. “What time did you think Barton would be out of the building by?”

“By seven, I’m sure,” he replies, before frowning slightly. “Is it supposed to be making that noise?”

She frowns, her eyes back on the road. “What?”

“The TARDIS?”

Graham barks a laugh at that, before Ryan interjects before the Doctor can. “I’ve told her! But she just says that she _likes_ those noises.”

“Well, I do!” she protests, giving the wheel an affectionate pat. “And she runs perfectly fine with them.”

Ryan mutters something about ‘perfectly fine’ being a strong way to put it, and the Doctor catches a glimpse of Yaz’s smile in the rearview mirror. O pulls his bag slightly closer to his chest, like somehow that will protect him from whatever danger he thinks he’s in.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters to himself, just loud enough for her to hear – but she glances at him, and he’s smiling just a little.

“See,” she grins back at him. “Told you the TARDIS was great.”

“She certainly, uh,” he says, “shattered my expectations.”

The Doctor decides to take that one as a win.

They spend the rest of the journey forming some semblance of a plan for when they get there – they know there’ll be a tour, and O is fairly confident he’ll be involved in that from VOR’s end, since Barton had mentioned it to him in no uncertain terms a couple of days previous. Then, there’ll be the interview, which the Doctor plans to be just herself, Yaz and Barton. In the meantime, O will take Ryan and Graham around under some guise, with the idea of surreptitiously showing them how to get to the sections they’ll need to access that night when they go back. When O won’t be with them.

And then, they’ll head back to O’s place again, before returning to the headquarters under the cover of dark, once the place is mostly empty. And that’s when she’ll find out _exactly_ what’s been going on.

She can’t help but smile at the thought, a sense of excitement blooming in her chest, despite everything. She holds it tight, savouring it. Oh, how she loves this. The thrill of the chase.

When this all comes together – and it _will_ – it’s going to be _so_ satisfying to tear Barton’s whole empire down.

And when she’s done _that,_ she can get back to Sheffield and get straight back to work on that other case. On finding Ada.

She just hopes Ada can wait that long.

Or that the police can _actually do their jobs –_ but, Yaz aside, she’s never been all that optimistic in _that_ regard.

It doesn’t feel like too much longer before she’s pulling up to the curb just a few streets away from the building in question, attempting to brake gently as O unbuckles his seatbelt. Judging by the way he grabs the door before glancing at her with a raised eyebrow, it hadn’t been very gentle at all. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts and all that.

“I’d wish you good luck,” O says, “but I get the feeling you don’t need much of it.”

She flashes him a grin – because he’s right. She’s done this show a million times before – it’s always different players, but she knows the game like it’s embedded in her bones. By the time the week is out, Barton isn’t going to know what’s hit him.

Still. “Having a bit of extra luck never hurts,” she says.

He ducks his head at that, glancing away, before looking back and managing a smile. “Well, good luck then.”

He must be nervous, she decides – for her, or for himself, she’s not quite sure.

Perhaps it’s both, she reasons.

“Good luck to you too,” she replies.

“Yeah, good luck, son,” Graham says, leaning forward from his seat. “Don’t worry about a thing, the Doc always has it in hand.”

“Yes, I suppose she does,” O replies, and gives an amused hum before he hops out of the car. “Alright then. See you lot in a minute.”

“See ya!” the Doctor waves, before O shuts the door and begins walking away. She watches his progress through the windscreen before Graham clearing his throat drags her out of her thoughts.

“So,” Graham says. “What now?”

“Now,” the Doctor says, pulling out her phone to glance at the time. “Now, we wait.”

Waiting, as always, is the _worst,_ but somehow the Doctor manages to endure it, mostly by ignoring the others chattering away the time whilst she looks over her notes again. But the second it’s viable for them to leave, she’s already jumping out onto the tarmac and heading down the street, following the route O had walked before them. Yaz is the first one out behind her, followed by Ryan, who fumbles to pull an extra bag over his shoulder. Graham, of course, follows up in the rear – a move that the Doctor is pretty convinced isn’t anything about how fast he can go (because she’s _seen_ that man run at the prospect of a sandwich) and more about keeping all three of them in his sights. She supposes she can understand that. Between her and Ryan, someone is bound to end up falling flat on their face or ending up in a ridiculous amount of trouble.

The TARDIS is parked only a few minutes from the headquarters, and it’s not long before the building comes into view. It’s an impressive, modern-looking structure, dark and looming above them against the bright blue sky. The Doctor considers it for a moment from her position on the opposite side of the road, figuring that at first glance, it wouldn’t seem to be the sort of place that would hide the worst kind of atrocities. But then, she supposes, she learnt long ago that assumptions like that only closes her mind – keeps her from the truth. And something like that she could never allow, even if others prefer to buy into the easy lie. Cheap and clean in its promise, but beneath that shiny veneer is the ugly, bloodsoaked truth.

There’s a click next to her, and she glances to her left to see Ryan standing behind her, camera to his face as he takes a photo of the building before them. She raises her eyebrows, before glancing down and realising that the second bag he’d been struggling with at the start of their walk had in fact been a _camera bag._ She raises her eyebrows.

“That’s a bit of an upgrade from just using your phone,” she says, unable to hide her smile. Ryan moves the camera away from his face for a moment to meet her gaze, returning her smile with one of his own.

“Been saving up,” he says.

“For months, he has,” Graham confirms, and there’s approval in his tone. “He finally had enough just over Christmas.”

“Still trying to work it all out,” Ryan admits, a little sheepish, lowering his camera before his smile returns at full wattage. “But it’s proper cool, right?”

“I’ll say!” she says, resisting the urge to elbow him affectionately – she doesn’t want him to drop the thing. “You look like a proper camera man!”

“Speaking of which,” Yaz says, stepping forward, face titled upwards towards the building. There’s a spark of excitement in her eyes that the Doctor can’t help but recognise. They all know by now that Yaz loves this part just as much as she does. “We doing this the normal way?”

The Doctor just flashes her a grin, knowing exactly what she means. “ _Always._ ”

The foyer is bright, natural light flooding through the floor-to-ceiling windows and spilling out across the white granite floor. The four of them wait by the reception after being checked by security, the Doctor leaning against the smooth curve of the desk as though she owns the place. The receptionist, who they’d clearly disturbed from nearly dozing off, is looking at her with an unimpressed expression that she is taking great delight in ignoring. They’ve only been waiting for a couple of minutes, but it’s not long before three figures appear out of a door, heading in their direction. The Doctor immediately recognises one as Barton, dressed in a well-fitted suit and looking somewhat harassed. On his right is a pale-skinned, nervous-looking man with thick-framed glasses clutching an tablet of sorts – presumably Barton’s aide or PA. On Barton’s left, talking with expressive gestures, is a dark-skinned woman wearing an offensively bright pink shirt beneath a far more subtle black jacket.

“This work is very important, is all, Mr Barton,” she’s saying, talking at a mile a minute and grinning like she’s living in a musical. “I don’t need to take up much more of your time, I just–”

“You’re right, you don’t,” Barton replies coolly, levelling her with a stern gaze.

“Right,” she smiles, blazing right on through. “So, if one of your employees could give me a quick look around, just to get a sense of things, that would be _perfect_. It’s only a cursory assessment, as I said before.”

Barton looks like she’s asking for a mile, and he has no intention of giving her a single inch. But the man on his right clears his throat pointedly, getting Barton’s attention, before trying to subtly indicate with his head to where the Doctor and the others stand within earshot. Barton follows his gaze, seems to consider something, and then sighs.

“Alright then,” he cedes, looking to his aide. “Get someone down here asap.” He glances back at the woman. “A _cursory_ assessment.”

Her smile only brightens. “Thank you, Mr Barton.” Her tone is drenched with sickly sweet gratitude that, somehow, seems genuine.

“Now, if you don’t mind…” Barton says pointedly, already beginning to move towards the reception. The woman nods, taking a step away, and not following as Barton closes the distance between himself and the Doctor. His aide taps away at his device, before looking up at them. “Hi there! Sorry about that.” He indicates to his boss beside him. “I’m sure you recognise Mr Barton.”

“Certainly do,” says Ryan, his smile a little nervous. The Doctor makes up for it by sticking her hand out for Barton to shake, pulling on her confident mask with ease.

“Yep. Hi, I’m the Doctor,” she says, unable to stop the slight smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth. Oh, how she loves this name she chose for herself.

Barton takes her hand, the tightness of his grip strong, and she ignores the vague discomfort of the direct contact, hiding it behind her smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “And please, call me Daniel.” He glances at the others. “This is the rest of your team, I presume?”

“Yep,” the Doctor replies, indicating to each of her friends in turn, knowing exactly what she’s going to say – their usual story. “This is Yaz, my apprentice; Ryan, my photographer and media coordinator, and then Graham, our manager.”

“That’s right,” Graham says. “Because they all need managing. Especially that one.” He waves a hand in the Doctor’s direction.

“He’s also in charge of catering,” she adds pointedly.

“Right…” says Barton, sounding uncharacteristically unsure, before motioning behind him, gently tugging the conversation back under his control. “Shall we?”

He leads them across the foyer and in through the door he’d come out of before. The Doctor notices the card that he presses against the keypad, almost exactly like the one she’d seen O messing with all of last night. An all-access card, probably – it’s not like there’s going to be anywhere in this place that Barton _can’t_ go.

As much as she wants to do something stupid – swipe the keycard right out of his hands, or ask questions about the security in this place that are immediately going to come off as suspicious – she decides to not even bring it up, instead choosing a more predictable line of questioning.

“Who was that woman back there, then?” she asks. “Seems like she was causing you some hassle.”

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Barton’s aide replies as they begin to head down the corridor on the other side, the door closing behind them. “Just a health and safety inspector.”

The Doctor’s brow furrows, right as Yaz asks the very question that had flashed through her mind. “Isn’t that important, though?”

Barton levels his aide with an unimpressed glare and, somehow, the aide manages to look even more nervous.

“Ah, of course it’s important!” he says. “Which is why the company has its own internal health and safety team to ensure all our employees are working in a safe environment.”

_And what about your lab rats?_ the Doctor aches to ask. _Are all unethical experiments on human participants conducted in compliance the company’s health and safety guidelines?_

But, of course, she bites it back. _Not now. Not yet._ She knows better than to push too hard, too soon.

She can bide her time. Wait for the perfect moment to deal the fatal blow.

Or something like that.

They follow Barton and his aide into a lift, and the Doctor watches the floor numbers flick up, up, up before glancing over at Barton. He stands on her right, face impassive, and irritatingly over a head taller than her. She tries not to take it personally, but then decides that if this guy is experimenting on people then maybe she gets a free pass to be a little petty.

“We’ll be giving you a quick tour around some of our facilities first, before we head to my office for the interview,” Barton tells her, still looking straight ahead, like he’s in a staring competition with the line between the lift doors. He smiles, somehow smug. “How does that sound?”

She can’t help but wonder what he’d do if she _didn’t_ like the sound of that. From what she’s seen of him so far, she thinks he’d just laugh at her. It certainly wouldn’t throw him off, as much as she wishes it would.

That’s the main thing she’s picked up about him so far. Daniel Barton is a man completely at home – in this building, in this company, in this _job,_ in his own _skin._ He’s completely in control – and that’s just how he likes it.

It’s also, she thinks, going to make him feel untouchable. Like no one can pull him down from the pedestal he’s built for himself. And that’s going to make him cocky – and, she hopes, means he’s going to make a mistake.

“Sounds great,” she says, her tone chipper, like she’s just happy to be here and not looking at anything beyond the surface level. “Where are we headed first then?”

“Just around some of our labs – I’d like to introduce you to one of my scientists, so you can see a bit more of the human side of the company.” The lift pings, the doors sliding open smoothly, and Barton steps out with a purposeful stride, almost leaving the Doctor behind. She jumps to follow him out, matching his speed despite her irritatingly shorter legs. The corridor beyond is almost the same as the one they just left – white and windowless – and for a moment it feels like they didn’t even move at all. “Of course, I can’t give you as thorough a tour as I would like – confidentiality and all that. I wouldn’t want any of our more ground-breaking projects to get out into the public eye just yet.”

“Or into the hands of your competitors,” she adds, her tone easy-going. “It’s fine – I expected it.”

Barton just nods. “Thank you. In my experience, most journalists are not so…how should I put it? Understanding.”

The Doctor grins, sharklike. “Well, I’m not here to investigate VOR, am I?” Her tone turns joking. “Unless you’ve got something to hide…”

Barton just laughs, like the idea is ridiculous, and she hates him for it. “Of course not.”

“This is our general research floor,” the aide says, trying to pull the conversation into safer PR territory, looking around Barton to catch her eye. “Which is where we analyse the data for our current projects, and investigate potential avenues for new research.”

They reach a pair of doors at the end of the corridor, and after another swipe against a keypad, the doors swing out into a large, open-plan space with far too many desks and workbenches and fancy computers and floor-to-ceiling windows for the Doctor’s liking.

“Very impressive,” she says, managing to sound like she actually _is_ impressed.

“You haven’t even seen the best stuff yet,” Barton says, amused, as he leads them through the space, weaving through workstations until they reach the door on the other side. It leads through into another corridor, but this time, there are windows into smaller lab areas and office spaces. The Doctor can’t help but idly wonder how O can stand to work in such a place like this – the very _idea_ of being confined to an office frankly disturbs her. But, then, she supposes she and O are quite different in that regard, even if they’re similar in so many other ways.

At the thought of him, she can’t help but wonder where he is – Barton had said they’d be meeting on of his scientists, which _had_ to be O based on what he’d said earlier. She can’t help but smile slightly.

“So what about this scientist of yours, then? What do they do?”

Barton’s smile just tugs at the corners as he moves towards another door, pressing his keycard against the pad.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” he says as he pushes the door open.

The lab, at first glance, appears empty as the Doctor pokes her head around the doorframe. But then O’s head appears as he straightens up, previously hidden behind a large piece of equipment. He immediately jumps off his chair and moves towards them.

“Oh, hello,” he says, his expression open and mildly curious, as though he’s never set eyes on any of them before. The Doctor can’t help but be impressed at his acting ability – finally, one that rivals her own. “Yes, Mr Barton told me you were coming.” He stands before them, giving a curt nod in greeting. “I’m Dr Dhawan, pleasure to meet you all.”

She can’t help but idly wonder where he learnt how to hide his true emotions like that.

Of course, she keeps all of it from her face, instead returning his meek smile with a confident grin of her own, sticking her hand out. “The Doctor. And likewise.”

O reaches out and shakes her hand, and in that moment, she catches a glimmer of something in his eye. Like a shared secret.

She keeps her smile from growing, instead dropping her hand from his before she hangs on for too long.

“Dhawan is one of our key researchers,” Barton explains, clearly still feeling comfortably in control of the whole situation. “He’ll be able to offer a different perspective on our work. I think you’ll find him very interesting to talk to.”

“Oh, I’m certain I will,” the Doctor says, managing to hit _polite_ rather than _overly fond._ O just gives a slight shrug.

“I just hope I can be helpful,” he answers. “Your article is looking into how software such as ours could be vulnerable to misuse? Cyberbullying and such?”

“Along those lines, yeah,” the Doctor replies. “We’re looking into a number of different companies, comparing different approaches.”

“And seeing as VOR is of the biggest technology companies in the world right now,” Yaz adds, “there’s no way we couldn’t try and come and talk to you, get your take on it.”

“Of course,” Barton says, before he indicates with his hand out of the door. “Shall we, then?”

Barton, somehow, manages to make the tour feel extensive and in-depth whilst simultaneously not sharing much of anything. It’s a classic move, in the Doctor’s experience – make it look like you’re open, that you have nothing to hide, and it’s only when they sit down and think about it after the fact that they realise you told them very little at all.

O joins in the act with him, but occasionally drops small crumbs of details that he probably shouldn’t, which several times lands him on the other end of Barton’s fixed gaze. Each time, he fumbles a backtrack, like the whole thing had been an accident. Somehow, he manages to walk the line between dropping hints for the Doctor and not arousing Barton’s suspicion. Or, if Barton _is_ suspicious, he certainly doesn’t show it. She hopes he isn’t, for O’s sake.

She doesn’t like the idea of putting him in any more danger than she has to.

She doesn’t like that with _any_ of her friends.

Her mind flicks again to Ada – to that phone call, the pure terror in her voice.

The Doctor swallows her guilt.

Once the tour is done, Barton’s aide – who had been bumbling around following them the whole time, making sure everything said toed the party line – finally makes himself scarce, and Barton leads them up to his office so they can do the interview. It’s then that Graham pipes up.

“Doc, you don’t need me for this part, do you?” he says, lingering back. “This is more for you and Yaz. ‘S just I need to head to the gents, is all.”

“Me too, actually,” Ryan says, jumping on.

O catches on quickly. “Well, why don’t I show you the way? Then you can wait in the foyer until they’re finished.” He glances to Barton for approval. “If that’s alright?”

“Fine by me,” Barton says smoothly, but he levels O with a stern look. _Don’t let them out of your sight,_ it seems so say.

The Doctor can’t help but smile. No, O _won’t_ be letting them out of his sight.

He’ll be leading them exactly where they need to go.

She masks her smile with a cheery wave at Graham and Ryan, flashing her grin at Yaz too before turning back to Barton. “Lead the way!”

Barton raises his eyebrows a fraction, before continuing to lead them on. He takes them through to the lift again, this time taking them up to one of the uppermost floors. The doors slide open to a short corridor with one room at the end.

“Your office is the only thing on this floor, then?” Yaz asks as Barton steps out and the pair of them follow on behind.

“I like my own space,” Barton says simply. Yaz makes an amused sound, playing along. It’s good. It gives him what he wants, and right now they need him to feel like everything is going exactly how he wants it to.

“Yeah, I get that. Suppose I’d do this too if I ever got the chance.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” Barton says. “It’s nice to talk with Brits again. That’s the main reason you got in, you know? I spend so much time in the States, I get sick of American reporters.”

Yaz laughs as Barton unlocks the door with his keycard. It swings open into a spacious room with large windows, flooded with natural light. Barton’s desk – a minimalist, aesthetic oblong-looking thing – stands in front of the window directly ahead of them, imposing even without the man himself sitting behind it.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he says.

“Very,” Yaz replies.

The Doctor makes herself hum in agreement – she’s never been one for needless displays of wealth and power. It only tells her exactly what kind of man Barton is – and that’s all she really needs to know, she thinks, as he manoeuvres himself around to the other side of the desk and takes his seat, sitting back and folding one leg over the other. Backlit by the late morning glow, he looks striking. In control. A tiger, carefully scoping out his unsuspecting prey.

“Please,” he says smoothly, indicating to the seats in front of the desk. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

The Doctor perches on the edge of the chair on the left, Yaz taking the one beside her. On principle, she doesn’t get comfortable, instead taking out her phone and pulling up the voice recorder app.

“Alright if I record?” the Doctor asks, like she wouldn’t if he said no. Barton doesn’t say anything, clearly not bothered, so she puts the phone on the edge of the desk in front of her. In plain sight.

She doesn’t really need to record this. Her notes have always been good enough, and this interview isn’t even why she’s _here,_ after all. This will not be where she asks the questions she _aches_ to ask. But it pays to keep up appearances – to lull Barton into a false sense of security. Because he thinks he’s got a handle on her, thinks he’s the predator in the room. But she’s a shark, and she’s already caught onto the scent of his blood in the water. It’s only a matter of time.

“Good to go?” Yaz asks, as the Doctor pulls her notebook out too.

“Fire away,” Barton says.

The Doctor smiles, clicking her pen a couple of times with a flourish. “So then. Grew up in Bromsgrove. Council estate, local state school – and now you’re the spearhead of one of the biggest technology corporations on the planet.”

“ _The_ biggest,” Barton corrects. “And growing. What we’re doing now is already ahead of everyone else in this industry – just think what we’re going to be able to do in the future.”

“It’s exciting, that’s for sure,” the Doctor says. “Especially considering the number of pies your company has its fingers in – scientific and medical research, technology, global mapping, data analytics, and that’s only the start of it. Your projects in robotics in the area of bionic prosthetics is already combining the technological and medical knowledge base you’ve fostered within VOR. And you’ve recently stated you’re planning to go further in that direction – combining the different parts of VOR to make more breakthroughs.”

Barton smiles, titling his head slightly. “I see you’ve done your research.”

She holds her hands out. “Always. But how did you end up here, then? How did you get from there to sitting in that chair?”

“A combination of an inspiring computer science teacher, plus being one of the few non-white faces at my school. I spent a lot of time in my bedroom with my computer. I started small, just trying to build a knowledge base. Trying to connect people with data.” He smiles. “And now it’s become what it is now.”

The Doctor’s pen has been scratching its way across the page, making notes just to look like she’s doing it. No, her _real_ notes are the little circular ciphers she doodles in the margins, like meaningless patterns, decorations. But they’re far from meaningless – no, this is where her _real notes_ are hidden, all the things between the actual words on the page. Here is where she documents how his smiles never reach his eyes, how despite the fact he’s talking about something he’s built his life on, something he should be _proud_ of, something he should be _passionate_ about…there’s none of it on his face. Instead, all she’s getting is a perfected mask, the refined statue with perfectly chiselled emotions that Barton has turned himself into.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? She trusts scientists, engineers, inventors, _creators_ – those people with sparks of excitement glimmering in their eyes, whose faces light up when you ask the right question. But those who don’t? Those who are cold, detached…

She doesn’t trust those types as far as she could throw them.

(Which, admittedly, would probably not be that far at all, but that just _makes_ her point, actually).

“And what it is now,” the Doctor continues, leading him down her false trail, “is, arguably, one of the most powerful companies on the planet, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be immodest,” Barton says with a smug grin that screams _anything_ but humble.

“But it’s true,” Yaz says, picking up the line. “Which puts your company in an important position of responsibility over online abuse. Disinformation, cyberbullying…”

“We did something great, and it got hijacked,” Barton replies. “It’s the fate of every step forward in technology for someone to find a way to misuse it.”

“Precisely,” the Doctor says. “So what’s VOR doing about it?”

“Well, we have three start-ups currently trying to figure out how to combat them,” Barton says, levelling his gaze at her. “But I expect you already knew that, seeing that you do so much…in-depth research.”

The Doctor allows herself to lean back slightly, knowing immediately what Barton is insinuating. But it’s fine. She’d expected this. “You think I have an ulterior motive for being here?”

Of course, he’s _right_ – but she has no intention of letting _him_ know that.

“I do my research too, Doctor,” he says. “I wanted to make sure you really were who you said you are.”

She shrugs. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“And what I found,” he continues, still smiling, all teeth, “is that your beat is more – how should I put this? Accusatory.”

“Not always,” she argues – because it _isn’t._ “My beat is investigating issues that negatively affect communities, and addressing them. Making things better. And online abuse is such a key issue that I couldn’t sit by and ignore it.” She nods at him, smiling – unintimidated. Like they’re equals. “I think you understand that feeling. Which, besides from your expertise in this, is why I wanted to get your perspective on it. You’ve read my stuff, clearly. You know I capture the bigger picture.” She spreads out her hands. “That’s why I’m here.”

Barton says nothing for a moment, considering.

“You want to know my perspective?” he says. “It’s this: you see the best and worst of humanity doing this job. And you know what I’ve learnt? It’s that you can’t entirely trust everyone. Nor can you _control_ what other people are going to do. But the things we’re doing here, at VOR? Our most cutting-edge projects –” and now, _here,_ she sees that flicker of light in his eyes as he looks right at her – “are going to change the face of humanity, for the better.”

It’s not just passion.

It’s obsession.

She can remember so clearly what O had said to her, sitting beside her on that bench only a few days ago –

_“– he’s obsessed with it – a fanatic, almost.  
Desperate for the **betterment**   
of humanity   
through **his** genius –”_

She can see it. Just a glimpse of what lies beneath the surface.

_  
“– and he doesn’t care how he does it.”_

She believes that this man could be responsible for the bodies piling in his basement.

She opens her mouth to say something else, to push further – but before the words can even tumble out of her mouth, a phone buzzes. Barton shifts forward, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and looking at the screen.

“Sorry,” he says, like he’s not sorry at all. He gets to his feet. “I’ve got to cut this short.”

“What?” the Doctor blurts out, jumping up as well.

Yaz immediately follows suit, turning to watch as Barton moves past them and towards the door. “But we were just getting started.”

Barton turns, looking at them. “You want to know who I am? What VOR is all about? ‘Cause there’s a technology conference happening at Spinningfields tomorrow. I’m going to be giving a keynote speech. Come along – I’ll put you down on the press list, as my apology for running out on you.”

He turns again, heading towards the door without a word, and it’s shutting behind him with a soft _thunk_ before either of them can say anything. The Doctor glances at Yaz just in time to see her blink, bewildered.

“What was _that_ all about?” she asks. “That was proper weird, right?”

“Right,” the Doctor agrees, mind racing.

“What are you thinking?” Yaz asks. “Do you think the others might be in trouble?”

“They might be…” the Doctor replies – the exact same thought that had crossed her mind. Whatever Barton had seen on his phone, he hadn’t wanted them in the lift with him – or had just wanted a head start – to the extent that he hadn’t even seemed concerned about the fact he’d left a _journalist_ unattended in his office.

Or maybe he’s just that confident in his security.

Either way. It hardly matters now, she thinks, as she turns, moving to the other side of the desk. It’s not like she’s going to let this opportunity go to waste.

“ _Doctor,”_ Yaz says, her voice tight with worry as the Doctor starts trying the drawers.

“What?” she asks – and of course, they’d all be _locked,_ wouldn’t they? She glances over the top of his desk, looking for anything that could catch her eye, but it’s mostly bare, minimalist. She tries the drawers on the other side of his chair instead.

“Aren’t we going to go?” Yaz asks, glancing around nervously, like Barton’s going to jump out from behind a cupboard. “We should go check the others, make sure they’re ok – if they’re in trouble –”

Yaz breaks off. Irritation and guilt twist in the Doctor’s gut – she’s really not going to get another opportunity like this, but –

But if the others need them –

The drawers aren’t opening anyway.

“ _Doctor,”_ Yaz says again.

She forces herself to take a step back from the desk.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, you’re right.” Her gaze flicks to look at Yaz briefly, before quickly darting away. She starts heading towards the door, not looking behind her to see if Yaz is following. She knows she will be. “Let’s go.”

“This way,” O says as he leads them through what, to Graham, appears nothing more than a maze of identical corridors that look like something out of a bland sci-fi movie. And he would know, since his mates over the years have made him suffer through a great _many_ of those.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way, son?” he asks, before glancing back at Ryan. “You’d think they’d put a little colour on the walls, wouldn’t you? Just a little splash of something? So you could figure out where you were? Bit of variety stops you getting lost and all that.”

“I know where I’m going,” O replies, a touch testy. “I do work here, after all.”

“He’s right,” Ryan replies. “It is a bit drab though. Didn’t Google have really colourful offices though, before they shut down? I heard they had slides and rubber ducks and stuff.”

“Perhaps that’s why they went bankrupt,” O replies. “I mean, if that’s what they were spending their money on.”

Graham isn’t quite sure what to make of O. His name, for a start – who goes by a letter, other than spies? It just seems odd to him. And if there’s any kind of movie he’s ended up watching as much as bland sci-fi, it’s bland spy movies. Maybe he needs to get friends with better taste.

Idly, he wonders what the Doctor’s taste would be, if she could bear to sit down long enough to actually _watch_ something from start to finish.

O, though. He seems a nice enough lad, Graham reckons. And he’s smart, technical – and seems to get on with the Doctor like a house on fire, which is always going to be a sign of good character in Graham’s book. But there’s something about him that he can’t put his finger on. Something…not quite off. Not quite wrong. But like they’re only seeing the surface of this man, and that if he were to toss a pebble into the metaphorical body of water that is _O,_ he’d find it went a lot, lot deeper than first appearances would suggest.

“Ok but,” Ryan starts, his voice a strategic whisper, “aren’t there CCTV cameras around here and stuff? Like, I thought you didn’t want anyone to know you was helping us.”

Graham can’t help but glance over his shoulder, half expecting to find people right behind them, listening in. But the hallway behind him – and ahead – is clear.

“Don’t worry about that,” O assures, heading towards a door on the left-hand wall. “I’ll tell Barton you wanted to take a couple of generic lab photos – nothing confidential.” He presses his keycard to the pad, and the door opens with a click. O throws a smile over his shoulder. “And I was with you the whole time, so you couldn’t have _possibly_ seen anything you shouldn’t.”

“You really think he’ll buy that?” Graham asks, concern immediately bubbling in his chest as he and Ryan follow O into the lab. O moves a couple of papers on a work surface aside, before crossing over to the other side and bringing back a test tube rack.

“He definitely will if he sees you taking photos on the footage.”

Ryan considers the test tube rack for a moment, then shrugs. “Guess it might be useful for the article anyways.”

O smiles, before turning to his computer. “That’s the spirit.”

“What are we doing now then, son?” Graham asks O, pretending to watch Ryan as he adjusts his camera. “I thought you were gonna be showing us where we need to go.”

“I’ll tell you,” he replies, pausing as his computer boots up before tapping in his password. “But there’s something I want to do first. It won’t take long, don’t worry.”

Graham’s not entirely convinced – he’s heard _that_ one too many times out of the Doctor’s mouth, whether she’s been tinkering with the TARDIS for the billionth time, or trying to ‘improve’ his toaster when he’s trying to make breakfast. But, despite the fact that O seems _very much_ like the Doctor, he somehow manages to finish in the space of about five or so minutes. His phone buzzes, and he checks a message on it, before pulling something small out the side of his laptop and snapping it shut with a click.

“Alright then,” he says, not looking up at them as he speaks. “Keep doing what you’re doing, but listen closely. When you come back tonight, you’re going to need to get down to the basement. The main lift in the foyer doesn’t lead down there – you’ll either need to use the secondary lift or the stairs.”

“The _stairs?”_ Ryan complains, but Graham knows what it really is – his grandson’s anxiety over inevitable stumbles and slips, hidden under the veneer of _I can’t be bothered to go to that much effort._ He doesn’t say anything.

“The secondary lift is the first option,” O assures, beginning to clear some of his things, like he’s tidying and not giving them classified information. “To get to that, you’ll need to go further into the foyer – once you’ve passed that door Barton would have taken you through, if you keep following the wall around, you’ll find an alcove hidden around the corner. Go through there, use the keypad on the wall and you’ll find the lift. Then, when you’re in there, type the numbers 0112 with the floor buttons, and use the keycard again. That will take you down to the basement.”

“0112,” Graham mutters to himself. “Security code?”

“Exactly. Then from there, it’s just a matter of exploring. I’m sure the Doctor will work out exactly where she needs to go.” With that, he turns to look at them, neatening the papers in his hand. He smiles. “Ready to go?”

Ryan straightens up. “Uh, sure.”

“Great,” he says. “Let me take you back, since you’ll probably get lost otherwise.”

“Oi!” Graham says. “Only because you lot don’t know the meaning of interior decorating!”

A smile spreads across O’s face, and holds up a hand. “I meant no offense by it. I’ll admit, I did spend my first few weeks here having no idea where I was going.”

Graham chuckles at that one, and decides that, whatever O might be hiding, he likes the lad.

It only takes them a few minutes to arrive back in the foyer, which is a bit quieter than it had been when they’d arrived, with the receptionist being the only other person in sight. Graham watches her fight off falling asleep, before turning back to the others when O clears his throat.

“I’ll be heading off now, got to get back to work,” he says. “But it was nice to meet both of you.”

He reaches out his hand, his eyes shining with something that almost looks like mischief. The euphoria of a perfectly constructed lie, well-pulled off. Graham just smiles back and shakes his hand, certain that he’s got that look in his eyes too.

“You too, son,” he replies. “Good luck with all that science stuff.”

“Thanks…” O replies, before turning to Ryan and holding his hand out again.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ryan replies, taking the offered hand. They shake firmly, and a strange look passes over his grandson’s face – but he doesn’t say anything. O just gives him a curt nod and a smile, before letting go and turning away, heading back the way they’d come.

Graham opens his mouth to ask Ryan what’s wrong, but before he can say anything Ryan just opens his hand wordlessly. In his palm lies a camera SD card, like the ones he uses all the time.

They look at each other for a moment.

“What –” Ryan starts, but cuts off before he can finish as the door to the main lift opens and the Doctor and Yaz come barrelling out.

“You lot alright?” the Doctor asks, a touch out of breath.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, frowning, tucking the SD card into his pocket. “Are _you?_ ”

The Doctor just makes an annoyed noise, and Graham glances at Yaz to see she doesn’t look all that chipper either.

“Barton bailed on us,” Yaz explains. “Said something came up. We thought you guys might be in trouble.”

“What?” says Graham.

“We’d barely even got _started_ ,” the Doctor grumbles, before straightening up. “ _But._ On the plus side, he’s going to give us press tickets to a conference he’s doing a talk at tomorrow. So that’s something.”

“Nice,” Ryan says. “We’re gonna go then?”

“Of course,” the Doctor replies, before lowering her voice, so quiet that Graham barely catches it. “Gives me the _perfect_ opportunity to question him about what we find tonight.” She looks up, gaze glancing between Graham and Ryan. “Speaking of…?”

“Got everything we needed,” Graham says, giving her a nod. “All in hand, don’t you worry.”

She grins at him. “Brilliant. Well then, in that case…” She starts moving again, heading towards the main doors. “We’d better get a shift on.”

“Oh yeah?” Yaz says, dashing over to keep pace with her.

“Yep,” the Doctor says, popping the p. There’s a look on her face that Graham is very familiar with. Determined. The Doctor on a mission, her goal in her sights. A force to be reckoned with – and certainly one you want on your side, not against you.

“We’ve got lots of work to do,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my favourite thing about this verse is the fact Google went bankrupt, but it does make me wonder if they still have the verb 'to google' something in this verse? Because I am not having them say 'oh, I'll just vor it' HAHAHA
> 
> ANYWAY! What's this? Actual development of the plot? More parallels to the actual episode? Oh yes. They're coming thick and fast now. Let me know what you thought! 
> 
> ALSO I must add, as someone who has written a lot of Clint Barton content in my time, it has been very odd writing 'Barton' and having to envisage a completely different character ahahaha


	10. Chapter Nine

That afternoon sees the Doctor hunched over her laptop, skimming through files. The SD card O had handed to Ryan, it turns out, is filled with various files from the project that Barton didn’t want them to know about. It’s full of documents – more lab reports, results analysis, and a handful of notes on the technology and how they were developing it. It doesn’t give her the complete picture, not yet, but it gives her a damn good idea, that’s for sure.

She already knew that Barton was trying to enhance humans with technology, make them into something better. But now, she realises that he’s doing more than that – he’s attempting to directly integrate technology _into_ human biology. She knew that they were developing some kind of device that attaches itself into the central nervous system by sitting at the base of the neck – but not that it connected to the blood stream too. From that position, connected to _both_ key systems, it can complete multiple functions – from monitoring vital signs and health, connecting to other devices and streaming information into the brain via electrical pulses of some kind, as well as injecting CRISPR into the blood stream, presumably with the intention of making users stronger, healthier and _younger_ for longer.

And by the looks of things, the participants had _not_ been fully informed about the nature of the experiments. There are copies of the full consent forms, and _nowhere_ doesn’t it mention invasive integration of potentially dangerous technology – just something about trials for new ‘wearable devices’. Hah.

She now also knows the name of the project: Kasaavin.

Whatever that means.

All she knows is that she _doesn’t_ like this.

Not one bit.

Because even though she can see the uses in some technology like this – hell, she could even see the benefits.

No technology is worth killing people for.

She’s seen where that leads. And whilst the Cybermen were worse than this, she knows all too well that this kind of path is a slippery slope – and she has no idea how far down Barton is prepared to go to get what he wants.

And it still doesn’t make _sense_ to her – whilst these devices are insidious, _disturbing_ even, she doesn’t understand quite how they managed to _kill_ so many of the participants. The seizures, in part, she can understand, but _organ failure –?_

“Still think it was rather spyish of him,” Ryan says from where he’s sat at the table, which is now cleared of most of the wires and computer bits from that morning. “Handing me all the info on a SD card like that. Why not just use a memory stick?”

“He was probably worried about us getting checked by security,” Yaz says from over her cup of tea. “An SD card isn’t going to look suspicious if you’ve got it. But a memory stick might raise some eyebrows. Especially if they’re worried about people leaking information to the press.”

“I know, I know,” Ryan replies, a smile tugging at his lips. “But I mean think about it – he goes by O, he’s got a house in the middle of nowhere, he hands people information secretly…”

“He also knows steganography,” the Doctor adds without looking up from her computer.

“What-an-ography?”

“Steganography.” She looks up at him. “It’s sending coded messages via images.”

Ryan just holds his hands out at Yaz. “See! _Spy.”_

“He’s not a spy, he’s just _smart,_ ” Yaz counters.

“Yeah, but the Doctor said there was spies involved in this case.” Ryan folds his arms, like that’s the killer argument that’s going to force Yaz to admit defeat. Unfortunately for Ryan, it just sends her eyebrows up into the stratosphere.

“The Doctor said _what?_ ”

The Doctor puts one finger up. “To be fair, I said there might be government agents involved.”

Ryan leans over to Yaz, speaking in an overexaggerated stage-whisper: “ _Spies.”_

“ _Ehhhhh_ sort of?” the Doctor replies as Yaz looks to the ceiling, probably praying for strength. “Look, all we know is that one of the people who went missing was definitely doing secretive work, and her employees haven’t told her family about the fact she’s missing, _so…_ ”

“So you really think she’s a spy, then?” Yaz asks, her voice only a little incredulous. Like maybe she’s taking the idea seriously.

“I mean, maybe she’s just a receptionist at GCHQ and wanted to sound cooler by saying she had to sign an NDA and not talking about her job,” the Doctor replies.

“But you don’t believe that,” Yaz finishes.

“No, I don’t. Doesn’t add up.”

Ryan leans back in his chair. “And _that’s_ what I like. It’s not a Doctor case if there isn’t something completely bonkers involved, is there?”

“I’ll say,” Yaz replies, a fond smile creeping across her face.

It’s then that there’s a bang from the kitchen, followed by a series of muffled curses.

“Oi, could one of you lot help me in here!” comes Graham’s voice, along with more clatters. “Why this man has so many pans I have _no_ idea –”

Ryan rolls his eyes, before getting up, wearing a fond smile of his own.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming, old man.”

The Doctor can’t help but grin at the sounds of Graham’s spluttered, offended protest in response to _that_ comment. But it fades quickly as she casts her eyes back across the file open on her screen. A frozen, dangerous anger is growing within her, frost feathering across her ribcage and crystalising in her heart.

“How bad is it?” Yaz asks quietly, and the Doctor knows she’s seen the ice in her eyes.

“Oh Yaz,” she says, her voice cold, “I’m going to make Barton regret he was even born.”

By the time O has come back and the Doctor has given up with reading through the files, the sun has completely set, the sky burning with an inferno of colour before sinking down into a deep darkness. The Doctor leans on the kitchen counter, looking at the yellowed moon through the window whilst she thinks. The documents are still crying for attention at the forefront of her mind, but she pushes them aside, trying to think clearly. This case isn’t going to be easy – not because the evidence will be hard to get, but because the people involved have so much _power,_ and they are doing something so _depraved_ as human experimentation _._ But she’s always loved a challenge. She _thrives_ in the thrill of it, in following the leads down their paths and pulling the picture together until they form a story so resolute, so watertight, that even those who think they’re untouchable can be dragged down into the mud of their own making.

She won’t let Barton get away with it.

She never lets _anyone_ get away with things like this, and she’s not about to be intimidated now.

Besides, the fact that this one is going to be _challenging_ will only make it all the more impressive when she inevitably pulls it off.

And she _will_ pull it off. And soon. Because she needs to get those remaining participants out, and then go and look for Ada.

She just hopes desperately that she’s alright, wherever she is – even though the chances of that are _slim._

“You ok?”

She looks over her shoulder to see O standing in the doorway. She smiles, swallowing down the churning feelings in her throat.

“I’m good. Just needed a break.”

He nods, his gaze sympathetic, before leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. “Enjoying the view?”

He almost seems… _nervous._ She’s not quite sure what to make of it.

“Yep. Think it’s a supermoon.” She looks back out the window, leaning forward further to get a better look. She can just about see the boldest stars peeking through the dark despite the light of the kitchen.

“You know,” he says, “there’s a better vantage point. If you want to get a good view. And a distraction from all that, I suppose.” He waves a hand vaguely.

She turns fully to look at him, frowning. “Yeah?”

He just smiles, moving away from the doorframe and past her, through the kitchen and towards the back door. He unlocks it, pulling it open.

“Come on,” is all he says.

She frowns, and then follows.

Around the back of the house is a small, fenced off garden that’s seen better days. In the light of the moon, she can just about make out all the scattered plant pots and pieces of half-assembled (or half disassembled?) equipment that’s been strewn across the overgrown paving. She picks her way through it, managing not to stumble as O pulls up a ladder that had been resting on the ground. He shakes it, checking it’s not completely busted, before he props it up against the roof. She can’t help but grin.

“The roof?” she asks, amused, her breath forming clouds in front of her face.

“Well, it _is_ the best way to look at the sky,” he argues with a sheepish smile. He starts to climb up the ladder. “Did this all the time when I was a kid. Me and my best friend would just sit on the roof to look at the stars.”

She can’t help but feel a wistful ache at that, the holes in her past becoming more defined. Had she had a childhood best friend? She has no idea, but she finds herself hoping so. Where were they now? Had they climbed on roofs together too? She feels herself reaching, fleetingly desperate, into the vague, scattered memories she still has left of her childhood. But all she finds is smoke that dissipates in her hands.

She says nothing, focusing on climbing the ladder. When she gets to the top, O offers her a hand, but she doesn’t take it. She’s perfectly capable of pulling _herself_ up onto the roof, after all. She scrambles on the tiles, before pushing herself upright, a little steadier than she expected. _Brilliant._ She flashes O a smug smile, and he raises his eyebrows at her as he climbs up to the apex of the roof.

“You’ve done this before, then?”

Her smile threatens to fall, but she doesn’t let it, tightening her grip on her mask. “Might have. Can’t say for sure. I _have_ definitely climbed over and up plenty of _other_ things, though.” She follows after him, and can’t help but think of the time she’d ended up climbing out the window of a skyscraper for a case. Now _that_ had been an interesting one.

But O doesn’t miss a thing, it seems – at least, not when it comes to her – and she sees him wince as he turns and sits. “Ah, sorry. The amnesia thing. I keep forgetting.”

“Well, it’s the one thing I _can’t_ forget,” she quips as she perches next to him. He doesn’t laugh, and so she nudges him with her elbow. “That was a joke. You can laugh at that one.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he does smile – soft and sweet, like he’s never seen life as anything but beautiful. She knows it can’t be true. She’s seen the evidence he’d collected, in this case and the first time they worked together.

She knows he’s seen horrors.

He looks up at the sky stretched out in a panorama above them instead of replying, and she looks up too. Out here, she can see _all_ the stars, sparkling like diamonds as they emerge from the deepening dark. There are so many – more than she’d ever see in Sheffield, the city’s light pollution dampening the grandeur of the sky. She can’t help but smile, silently awed. The tightness that had been gripping her chest loosens as she leans back, letting everything – the case, Ada’s disappearance, the way she hurt the others by vanishing over Christmas – fall away under the beauty of the spacious firmament and the peace of friendly company.

“Alright, I’ll let you have this one,” she mutters. “Definitely the best vantage point.”

He chuckles at that one. “I am right on the odd occasion.”

“Oh, more than that!” she protests – because he _is._ “I think you’re rather brilliant, you know.”

“You do?”

“Yep! Like that zero knowledge protocol, that’s just fantastic – and even pretending you didn’t know me in front of Barton!” she says, flashing him a grin. “Come on, take the compliment. You know it’s true.”

He shakes his head, amused. “Alright, then. Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies, quietly pleased with herself. She watches him for a moment as taps his fingers on his knee – that quick, crisp, four-beat then two-silent pattern – before he looks up at the sky again.

“You know, there’s something I never asked when we first met,” he says, “and it’s still niggling at me.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Why did you pick _The Doctor_ as your penname?” he asks, his brow puckering with confusion. “It’s always struck me as rather odd. I completely understand not using your own name, but – why not a fake name that isn’t obvious?”

She hums. “I almost went by _John Smith._ ”

He laughs. “That one _also_ would have been obvious.”

“What?” she protests. “Just because it’s so common!”

He glances at her for a moment, before shaking his head, bemused – or perhaps endeared. “Yes, there’s that. There’s also the fact that as far as most people are concerned, you’re not a man.”

She opens her mouth to say something, and then shuts it immediately, not quite sure what to say.

“Did you forget?”

She can hear the smile in his voice as she looks up at the stars again, an overwhelming fondness for him blooming in her chest. “ _No…_ well – oh shush.”

He chuckles at that. “I’m not saying anything.” There’s a pause. “You still didn’t answer my question, though.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, considering her answer. He waits for her, patient. Like he knows she’ll tell him, if he gives her the time she needs.

“I wanted to fix things,” she says, before frowning. So much of it, she thinks, is tangled in the memories that have been taken from her, lost to the test of time and the outpouring of blood from a head wound. But she knows herself. She knows herself well enough to put the pieces together and know why she chose her name. “I always have, I reckon. As far as I can tell, anyway. It’s not just a name – it’s a reminder.” She looks down, at her hands which are resting on her knees. “A promise. To the world and to myself. That I’m here to help. To make things better.”

She turns to him, only to find he’s gazing at her already. Like he has been for a while now.

“To not turn away when people are hurting,” she says, her voice quiet.

“I see,” he says, his smile enchanted. In the moonlight, she can barely make out his eyes, but she feels them piercing her, can imagine galaxies blazing within them, swirling with a scattering of stars. “I should have realised that.”

“Why?” she frowns. Their faces are so close, she realises suddenly. But for some reason, she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t mind at all.

“Well,” he says. “It just makes sense. From what I know of you.” His eyes flicker down for a moment, almost shy, before back up to meet hers. “Now you’ve said it, I honestly can’t imagine you being called anything else.”

A smile spreads across her lips, more genuine than any before. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s your name. Even if you were something else before – the Doctor is _you,_ isn’t it?”

There’s something about him, she thinks. Something that feels like _home._

She doesn’t have a home. She doesn’t think she ever has, and even if she _had,_ it’s forgotten. A ghost, constantly haunting her. Because she’s gone so long without it, and suddenly, _suddenly,_ it feels like it’s right here in front of her, if only she could reach out and take it.

She doesn’t think she’s ever felt like this before.

Her heart is in her throat, quick and strong. Waiting.

In the dimness, she just about catches his eyes flicking downwards, towards her lips.

They are so close that their noses are almost touching.

He reaches a hand up, making it half way before he falters. “Oh – can I –?”

She doesn’t give him chance to finish. She just leans forwards, cupping his cheek under her palm and pressing her lips against his.

The shock on the contact is _electrifying,_ a bolt of lightning arcing between them, and it immediately shorts out every thought inside her head. Power cut. Blown fuses. She doesn’t know – she doesn’t know _anything_ other than the tender communion of their lips and the fact that she can’t _breathe._

It’s a long moment before he pulls away, gasping a little, and she’s just the same, only a smile is quirking at her lips, cocky and more than a little smug. He mirrors it, albeit a bit more sheepish.

“Wow,” he says. “Ok then.”

She just laughs, leaning forward again, this time to rest her forehead against his. “That was interesting.”

“One word for it,” he hums in agreement. She sees him swallow. “I’ve been wanting to do that all evening.”

She raises her eyebrows at him. Suddenly, his previous nervousness makes sense. “Did you drag me up here to _woo_ me then?”

He splutters at that. “ _No,_ of course not, I just thought –” Then he laughs to himself. “Ok, maybe a little bit. But I did think you’d like it up here.”

“You were right,” she says, moving herself away just ever so slightly so she can tilt her head up. The stars, somehow, feel even brighter now. She feels his hand brush very gently against hers – and it’s so strange, but it doesn’t make her flinch. She looks down at them, before back up to his face, trying to puzzle it out. He gives her a curious frown in return, like he’s not quite sure what to make of her scrutiny.

“Doctor?”

“There’s something about you,” she murmurs. “I can’t figure it out.”

His frown deepens. “Maybe it’s my devilishly handsome face?”

A smile cracks across her face at that one, even as her own sense of bewilderment grows. “I just don’t normally do this sort of thing, is all.”

“Kissing people on rooftops?”

She hums, amused. “Well, no. But the idea doesn’t usually appeal to me all that much.”

He tilts his head to the side. “But with me…?”

“It’s different,” she says. “I’m not sure why, but it is.”

“Good different?”

She hesitates very briefly, before quickly leaning in to press another kiss against his lips.

“Yeah…” she says.

“Well then,” he murmurs. “I guess I should count myself very lucky.”

She smiles. “Yep. You definitely should.”

He reaches up, gently brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, eyes fixed on hers. “I do. I really do.” He glances away for a moment, amused by something. “You know, my rooftop outings don’t normally end like this, you know.”

“You mean you bring people you want to kiss up here frequently?”

“Oh.” He shakes his head, flustered. “No, I mean – well. I mentioned my friend.”

She frowns, suddenly curious. “You wanted to kiss them too?”

He smiles, fond. “Yeah. But they weren’t ready for that.”

“Tell me about them.”

He gives her a look she can’t read. “Really? You want to know about my childhood crush?”

She shrugs. “Why not? I can’t remember mine. If I even had one.”

He falters at that, some strange emotion flitting across his face. “You really don’t remember anything? About when you were growing up?”

She shifts, looking out at the dark, rolling fields in front of them, silver in the moonlight. “Bits and pieces. Nothing much. And then I’ve got my records, so I know the where’s and when’s.”

“No family to ask?”

She hesitates for a moment. “No. I grew up in foster care.”

“Oh, I see.”

That hadn’t been the response she’d expected. Casual acceptance. There’s normally the awkward shuffle when people try to apologise for it, somehow. Or try and find out how your parents died out of some grim sense of fascination, when that’s not always how it goes.

Not for her, anyway.

“I did too.”

She glances at him, surprised. “Really?”

“Yep.” He gives her a tight smile. “Not all it’s cracked up to be, is it?”

She huffs a laugh at that. “From what I remember, it left a _lot_ to be desired.”

He laughs right along with her. “Yep. I’d say you’re probably not missing out on much, forgetting it – but. Well.” He shrugs. “I guess it’s hard. Not knowing your own life.”

“I know it,” she says, sounding surer than she is. “Or, rather, I know what’s important. I know who I _am._ ” She looks down at her hand, clenching and unclenching her fist. “I think I was in the habit of not letting my past define me anyway.”

He hums, clearly intrigued. “I’m not so good at that, I guess.”

She sways slightly, knocking her shoulder against his. “Always chance to start. You just gotta hold two fingers up to yesterday. Or one, if you’re feeling fancy.”

He grins at that. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is.” It’s a lie, and they both know it, but she’s enjoying herself, alone with only him and the stars for company. Sue her if she wants to pretend for a while that she has everything together.

He shakes his head. “I think you have an unfair advantage here.”

“I can push you off the roof if you want a head injury too. I promise it’s a good time.”

He just grins, shaking his head again. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.” Her fingers find a piece of moss on the tile beside her, and she starts picking at it. “Think of all the fun you’re missing out on. Mystery scars. Unexplainable gut instincts. Tattoos you don’t remember the meaning of.”

He turns to look at her, his expression pinched. “You get all of that?”

It grates a little, that he’s suddenly looking at her with pity. “Oh yeah. Buy two get one free. Offer you can’t refuse.”

He quickly picks up the tetchiness of her tone, and he reaches a hand up to the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s just hard to imagine.”

She sighs. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I’ll live.” She scrunches up her face. Trust her to ruin the mood. A flicker of panic runs through her – _he’s going to hate you now, he’s going to leave, you’ve done it AGAIN –_ but she pushes it aside. She’ll salvage this, she _will._ “I really do have a tattoo that I completely forgot getting, though.”

He snorts, and she feels a flush of success. “I think you’re not the only one who suffers that problem.” He looks up again, clearly curious. “Can I ask what it is?”

“A fobwatch,” she says, before scrunching up her face. “No idea what it means.”

The man beside her hums, sitting quite still. “Maybe you just liked fobwatches.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, not completely convinced. “Or maybe it’s to remind me that time is always ticking by.” She makes an amused sound. “Sounds like the sort of pretentious thing I might have done.”

“Who knows,” he says. “Maybe it’s supposed to remind you of someone.”

She shrugs. Something about that cuts at her.

“I hope not,” she said. “Because then it failed rather spectacularly.” The moss comes loose under her fingers, and she holds it for a moment, before tossing it off the roof. The light is so dim that she can only just make it out as it tumbles over the tiles before landing in the gutter. “Although no-one’s come up to me with a fobwatch and claimed to be my long-lost buddy, so I reckon it’s not that.”

Maybe they don’t care about her anymore, part of her thinks. Maybe she dropped off the radar, and they couldn’t be bothered to look for her. Or maybe they left her behind a long time ago.

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been abandoned. Not by a long shot.

She shakes her head. It’s stupid, getting herself torn up about a person who might not even exist. “It doesn’t matter really. It looks cool, and I like it. I suppose that’s enough.”

“Yes,” O says – and there’s something about his voice that strikes her as strange. Wistful, maybe. She remembers what he said before, about not being able to let go of his past. He must wish for it, she realises. To be able to loosen his grip on the marks that life has left on his skin – on his soul – as easily as she can. “I suppose it is.”

She doesn’t think he realises that she’s not had a choice in the matter.

If she chased after every unanswered question about herself…every incomplete memory…

She wouldn’t have a life.

She’d be so focused on herself that she wouldn’t be able to do what she does best – _fix things._ Make things right.

Her mouth opens, hesitant, but wanting to communicate the sentiment to him. Will it just ruin things again? Push him away?

But in the end, it doesn’t matter, because he speaks before she has chance to, rubbing his hands together. “It’s getting pretty cold out here. We should probably get down while we can still feel our fingers.”

She hums in amusement. “Not willing to risk that head injury just yet, then?”

In the moonlight, she can just about make out the contours of his smile. “Not just yet.” He looks at her. “I’d hate to forget this.”

She stares at him for a moment, something warm and new unfurling in her chest. “Me too.”

“Listen carefully,” O says later, when the world outside the windows is just deep black. “Because this is all _vital_ if you want to get in and out of that place without getting caught.”

“ _Your mission, should you chose to accept it,”_ Ryan whispers, before Yaz elbows him and he yelps.

“We’re listening,” the Doctor says, flashing an amused glance at Ryan before turning back to O. The warmth from earlier has remained, settling somewhere behind her ribs, clutched like a glowing ember. She settles into it, letting it exist there the best she can. She won’t let it cloud her judgement – she can’t afford that. But she doesn’t want to push it away just yet.

And maybe it’s a little selfish to be clinging on to something like this when people are depending on her to keep her head in the game. Especially when, in all likelihood, she’ll end up pushing O away at some point, like she always does with everyone. Once the dust of this case has settled, the chances are she’ll run for the hills and never look back. But maybe she can just pretend for a while that she won’t. And maybe she _really_ won’t – she hasn’t done it to the fam… _yet._ And she’s been friends with O since _before_ then. Although she supposes it’s easier to maintain a friendship over a distance, in some ways. Email after email after email. She’s not sure how this _new_ thing will even work – what this new thing even _is,_ if it’s even a good _idea_ (– _it isn’t, it isn’t_ –)

She shakes her head minutely, torqueing her thoughts _back_ to where they’re _supposed_ to be.

She hasn’t been _listening –_

“– security cameras back there, so you should try and avoid that section if you can. There’s a couple of observation rooms though, so you can look through from there and probably get a good sense of it.”

Yaz, Ryan and Graham nod sagely, like they’ve taken in every word. The Doctor crinkles her brow.

“What if we need to get in there?” she asks, whatever _there_ is. “I mean, there’s going to be security cameras throughout the building anyway. The chances of us being caught somewhere are pretty high. Might as well just go all in and have a look, right?”

O shrugs, and she catches sight of a small smile tugging at his lips, like he _knew_ she’d say something just like that. “I mean, if you think it’s worth the risk…but if you’re planning on going to Barton’s conference tomorrow, things might get a bit…”

“Dicey?” finishes Graham.

O grimaces. “That’s one way to put it.”

The Doctor considers it. “I think he’s going to know anyway. That’s not really the point. If he tries to have us arrested because we broke in, then I’ll just tell him we’ll release the evidence we found to the public. And anyway, we’re getting in with a security card – it’s not like we’re going to cause any property damage.”

Yaz pulls a face, the kind she always does when the Doctor skirts the line between _legal_ and _illegal_ on nothing more than a shaky technicality and a pair of dodgy rollerskates.

The Doctor looks at her imploringly. “Come on, it’ll be _fine._ ”

“You say that until you get _arrested,_ ” Yaz points out.

She just shrugs. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want.”

“No, I’m coming,” Yaz says immediately, sitting up in her chair – just as the Doctor knew she would. She can’t help but smile.

“Well,” O replies, “since _I_ won’t be coming, I think it’s about time I gave you this.”

He reaches over, holding something out towards the Doctor. She takes it, trying to ignore the ripples of sensation across her skin when their fingers brush. It’s the keycard.

“All sorted, and the zero knowledge protocol is ready to go,” he tells her, his smile soft around the edges. “You shouldn’t have a problem.”

She smiles back at him, clutching the card tightly in her hand.

“Try not to get into too much trouble, you lot,” Graham says from where he stands behind Ryan’s seat. He’d decided not to come with them on this occasion, saying someone needed to stay and keep O company. The Doctor thinks it might actually be because the man really thinks they _will_ get arrested, and will need someone to bail them out by the end of the evening. Which she thinks is somewhat unfair, even if he _did_ have to bail her out one time, but that had been the _exception_ not the _rule,_ thank you very much.

“We’ll try,” Ryan replies, leaning his head back to look at his grandad, before turning to the Doctor. “We going then?”

She glances at O once more. “Unless you’ve got anymore wisdom to impart?”

A smile tugs at his lips, some emotion flickering in his eyes that she doesn’t quite catch – but she can’t find it in her to care, not when he’s looking at her like she could take on a thousand armies without breaking a sweat.

“Nothing I can think of. You’ll be able to handle it.”

She’s starting to think maybe she would. For him. For the others.

Like maybe, somehow, despite the fact she’s lost so much and feels like dust in the wind half the time, she’s managed to carve something good out of her life.

Something she’d fight anything to keep.

Her smile broadens into a grin.

“Without a doubt.”

VOR is _different_ at night. Quieter, half the lights off and those that aren’t are dimmed down. The foyer is empty as Ryan leads the way inside, clutching his camera bag, making a bee-line for an alcove the Doctor never would have spotted otherwise. He leads them into a lift, staring at the floor keys for a moment before carefully selecting a string of numbers – 0112, she catches – and tapping the keycard against the pad before stepping back from it like he half-thinks it might explode or something. But the doors just slide shut with a sigh, and then her stomach lurches at the lift starts its journey downwards.

She clenches and unclenches her fists, anticipation coursing through her veins.

 _Geronimo,_ she can’t help but think, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

“What’s the plan, then?” Yaz asks, her voice low, even though there’s no one to overhear them.

“The plan,” the Doctor answers, “is to snoop.”

“Specific,” Ryan replies.

“What more do you want from me?” the Doctor complains.

“Some chocolate would be nice,” he replies, deadpan, but a grin traitorously tugs at his lips.

“But I mean,” Yaz says, wrestling the conversation back into useful territory, “are we sticking together? Splitting up?”

The Doctor opens her mouth to answer, but before she gets chance, the lift slows to a halt, and the doors open with a cheerful ding.

The corridor beyond is dark and foreboding, only lit by a bluish glow of the power-save lighting. The gentle yellow light of the lift interior feels almost homely in comparison. Warm. Safe.

Already, there is a sense of _wrongness_ in this place that sends a shiver rippling under her skin. Something other than her usual anxiety about stepping into the dark.

But she doesn’t even hesitate before moving out into the hall.

She’s been pushing her fears aside for as long as she can remember, and probably a long while before that too. That isn’t about to change now. If what Barton’s doing down here is anything even _remotely_ close to what the Cybermen were doing, she considers it her duty to stop it. And if not – well, she made a promise to O and to Hidayat that she’d get to the bottom of this. And that isn’t a promise she has any intention of breaking.

She quickly considers options presented to her – routes stretching out left, right and straight ahead. On a whim, she picks the one directly in front of her, her stride quick and purposeful.

“Stick together,” she says, as the other two dart forward to catch her up. She glances around quickly, but can’t see any sign of anyone. Hopefully, they’re alone down here. Still, it pays to be careful – even if she very rarely follows by that rule. She glances at Yaz. “Don’t wander off.”

Yaz balks, affronted. “Why was that at _me?!_ ”

“Because she _knows_ what you’re like, don’t she?” Ryan fires back. “After that incident with the spiders –”

“ _Shh!_ ” Yaz hisses, glancing around, before whispering back at him. “That was one time!”

The Doctor doesn’t say anything, her focus already narrowing down onto her task. She holds out a hand towards Ryan wordlessly, and he places the keycard into it as she reaches the door so she can press it against the pad. There’s a moment when she wonders if maybe it won’t work – if it’s going to reject the card and trigger blaring alarms, and make this whole thing be for nothing. But instead there’s just a green flash and an affirmative beep, and the door clicks open. She can’t help but smile.

She should have known better than to doubt O.

It swings open with a firm push, revealing a wider space filled with large tables and equipment, presumably for communal discussion of whatever discoveries they’re making down here in the depths. It branches off into further corridors, all still lit in that oppressive, dim blue. It’s completely silent, other than the gentle electronic hum of systems running in the background.

“Where first?” Ryan murmurs, beginning to pull his camera out of his bag.

The Doctor steps forward, glancing around over the table. It’s clear, any papers or useful evidence tidied away – nothing to offer any useful clues as to where they need to go. She frowns, glancing back at Ryan.

“Not sure,” she replies, her voice just as quiet. “What did O say?”

Ryan shrugs. “He said you’d figure out where you needed to go.”

Her frown deepens, and she looks around again, eyes tracking Yaz as she moves around the room, examining some of the equipment. There are no signs on the walls – but of course, there wouldn’t be. Maybe they’ll just have to start with one corridor and explore. But she has no idea how much time they’re actually going to get down here, and she’d rather head straight to where they _need_ to be if she’s going to really understand what’s going on here.

“Wait, Doctor,” Yaz says, peering at some kind of storage cabinet with a glass window. “Come look at this.”

The Doctor immediately moves around to her until she’s looking over her shoulder at what _isn’t_ a cabinet, actually, but more like some kind of sample storage unit, filled with row upon row of –

“Are they blood samples?” Yaz asks.

“Looks it,” the Doctor says, making no hesitation and opening the door of the unit. It makes sense that they’d keep samples – especially if the device they’ve made is injecting CRISPR into the bloodstream. She pulls out the first vial that her fingers brush against, squinting at the label. Her thumb brushes over the neatly handwritten note, ignoring the dark liquid that sloshes inside. Blood. There’s something about it that stirs at the back of her mind, a shark under a boat – but it’s only there for a moment, and then it’s gone. Like the feeling had never even been there. She pushes the thought aside, schooling her focus. Reading the writing.

_Type: A+ Subject: #21  
Other samples in lab08_

She hums, beginning to look through the others. Most stored in Lab 08, a few in 06. She glances around, wondering what number lab they were even in right now, let alone how to get to those ones. But maybe, if they’re numbered…

She puts the sample back, moving away from Yaz, past where Ryan is clicking photos with his camera, and towards the first corridor that offshoots from the main room. She strides down it into the deeper shadows, pulling her phone out of her pocket and switching on the torch. The small, harsh light barely pierces the darkness, but it does provide enough for her to read the label on the first door she comes to.

 _Lab 02_.

“Right,” she murmurs, realising the main space she just came from was probably _Lab 01_. “Well, that would make sense.”

She turns, shining the light further down the corridor. She can just about make out the end of the corridor, and the door on the other side of the wall further down. There are no lights on anywhere that she can see.

“Lab three, I presume,” she says.

Which means – there were four corridors out there. Presumably it’s 2 labs per corridor, then – so, Lab 02 and 03 here, 04 and 05 in the next one, 06 and 07 in the _next_ one…and then Lab 08 on its own in the last? Or is there a Lab 09 too?

She hears footsteps, and glances back, only to see Yaz walking towards her, Ryan just a few steps behind.

“What was that about sticking together?” Yaz asks, eyebrows raised. The Doctor just shoots her a cocky smile.

“What? I wasn’t far. Come on! Think there’s only a few rooms to check in around this bit.” She holds the cards against the pad. It beeps happily at her, and the door pushes open under her hand.

“Get _in,_ ” Ryan murmurs in appreciation. “He really got us all access.”

“Of course he did,” the Doctor replies, shining the torch over the area before them, illuminating work benches and equipment and computers. Nothing foreboding in itself – she’s seen plenty of labs in her time, after all. But she still can’t shake the sense of something being _off._ A monster looming just around the corner.

Maybe it would help if the lights were on, but she doesn’t know if that’s going to draw attention to whatever security they’ve got going on here.

Yaz steps into the room in front of her, already looking over the array of objects on the counter, looking for notes or anything that might be useful. The Doctor continues past her, trusting her friend’s attention to detail, and instead heads straight to the entranceway at the other end of the room, wondering where it leads. Once she’s past the archway, she finds herself in what seems to be an observation room of some kind. The wall to her right is completely take up by a large window, beyond which is a small, clinical room with what looks like a dentist chair in the middle. Her eyes are drawn to the straps on the arms, and she can’t quite help the chill that runs down her neck.

What have they been _doing_ to people in there?

She thinks of what she read in O’s notes – the invasive technology, the gene-editing. How most of the deaths had involved seizures. How whatever they were doing, they needed straps on the arms to keep the participants still in the chair.

_Twenty of thirty dead._

What did they do with –

There’s a clatter behind her, and she flinches, glancing back over her shoulder, only to find Yaz in the archway, holding something in her hand.

“Sorry,” Yaz says, like she can hear how the Doctor’s pulse thundering. It’s so loud it almost feels like she could. “But I found this.”

The Doctor steps forward so she can shine her phone torch on the object in Yaz’s hand. It’s almost the size of her palm, circular and clunky, trailing a tangle of wires. There’s something about it that sends goosebumps prickling across her skin.

“What do you think it is?” Yaz asks.

The Doctor carefully takes the device from her hand. It’s heavy, metallic, and cold to the touch.

She desperately pushes thoughts of the Cybermen aside.

“O’s notes,” she murmurs, “said they were making something that attached at the base of the neck. Connecting to the nervous system.”

“But surely that’s too big for that?” Yaz replies, her voice just as quiet. “Surely –”

“Prototype, maybe,” the Doctor interrupts. “Or could be something else.” She hopes it’s something else. The idea of something like this being directly interfaced with someone…

She pushes the thought aside, looking up at Yaz, passing the device back. “Take some photos, then put it back where you found it. We can’t take anything they’re going to notice.”

The two of them nod, Yaz taking it gingerly, and the moment she’s out the way, the Doctor heads straight towards the open doorway, deciding there’s nothing in this room that’s useful to her at first glance. They might not have time for a deeper look, and there’s something far more important she needs to find before they leave here.

The remaining participants.

“Come on,” she says after a moment. “Don’t get left behind.”

She heads straight down the corridor and back into the open space, considering her options. If the blood samples are kept in Labs 06 and 08, she’s going to assume that’s where a _lot_ of samples are kept. And she’s willing to bet that the participants won’t be in the same place as the samples. So then – Labs 04 and 05? That’s the next corridor along, and the most prominent one out of the four. Hm. Maybe that’s what O had meant about figuring out where to go. She supposes it’s as good a reasoning as any, and immediately heads towards it, ignoring the mumbling behind her from Yaz about not going off on her own, and from Ryan about the terrible lighting. They’ll follow her, she knows it.

The lights are completely off in this corridor, but as she walks down, trainers clicking against the linoleum flooring, they flick on to that same low, blue setting as the motion sensors activate. She keeps her phone torch on, blazing bright by her side. This time, she heads for the furthest door, glancing at the label before she presses the card against the pad. Lab 05.

The door swings open.

This lab is different. Larger than the last, most of it completely dark. And that sense of _wrongness_ is back, like she can feel breathing on the back of her neck. She doesn’t believe all that much in fate or ghosts or anything like that – there’s a rational explanation for everything, and it’s part of her job to find it out. But right now, in the dark, she can’t shake the feeling that something very, very bad has taken place in this room.

She swallows.

Maybe it’s just her mind – the missing pieces of the puzzle that is her past, that underlying fear of the dark that she can’t quite explain. Just an echo of a sound she can’t remember being made.

Maybe.

“Doctor?” Ryan asks – and by the tone of his voice, she thinks he feels it too.

“Creepy, this place,” she replies, in lieu of an answer to a question he didn’t voice. She steps forward, clutching the anxiety tightly in her chest. Fear is good. Fear keeps her smart – keeps her _fast._

She makes her way around the large lab bench in the middle and to the other side, her phone torch now close enough to cross the open space of the lab, illuminating the back wall and the medical bed that lies in front of it. There’s a door in the far right corner, and she glances around briefly before heading towards it. The other two stick with her this time, Yaz’s own phone torch joining forces with hers.

She almost hesitates before pressing the keycard against the door – but catches herself before she can.

No.

She might _embrace_ her fear, but under _no_ circumstances does she let anyone see it.

The door opens with a hiss, and immediately a gust of cool air hits them. The Doctor pushes the door all the way out, stepping into the room which seems to be mostly empty, except the back wall, which seems to be made up of a grid of large, square-ended drawers. Each one is lit up with a small light – most green, but a couple red.

“‘S cold in here,” Ryan grumbles, and the Doctor feels Yaz still beside her.

“Doctor,” she says, and there’s some awful recognition in her tone of voice. “I think – I think I know what this is.”

“What?” the Doctor asks, not looking back as she moves towards the wall. She reaches it, running a hand over one of the drawers with a green light – no, it’s not really a drawer. It’s like a hatch, like a –

Her hands are moving faster than her thoughts, unlatching the clasps and pulling open the door with a hard _yank._ It swings open with a near-silent, hydraulic hiss, revealing a vague, horizontal shape within, draped over with a white cloth.

“I think we’re in a morgue,” Yaz finishes.

The Doctor forces herself not to take an instinctive step back. She’s seen worse than this – _far_ worse. The night of the train crash comes to mind, when she’d dragged the others along into chasing down Tim Shaw, head still pouring with blood. He’d been in the black-market organ trade, and the things they’d seen _there…_

But a dead body is still a dead body, she thinks as she quickly counts the number of hatches in the wall. Ten. And she knows – she knows that there are _twenty_ participants who died. Maybe more, by this point.

Twenty dead.

She thinks of the people she spoke to in Sheffield.

She might have spoken to this person’s family.

She thinks of Hidayat.

She wonders if this is Noor’s body.

This morgue – if each green light is a body, it’s almost full. And there’s probably _more than one_ in this place.

Which means –

“They’re keeping the bodies,” she murmurs, thoughts racing. “They’re keeping the bodies, which means they’re still using them –”

“Or they don’t have a way to dispose of them?” Yaz says, coming to stand closer beside her, shoulders not quite touching. “Maybe –”

But the Doctor is shaking her head. “No, there’s got to be a reason they’re keeping them. This –” she waves a hand – “is all evidence that could be used against them. Why risk keeping it around when they could just burn them? They’re still using the bodies. Continuing their experiments.” Her lip curls in disgust – in _anger._ “They don’t even care that they’re dead. They’re just a _resource_ to them. Nothing more than a glorified petri dish.”

Ryan comes to stand on her other side, and she glances at him. He’s holding the camera up, and she catches sight of a steady red light on the top.

“Filming?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice just as low. “I, uh. I found the night mode.”

At any other time, she might have smiled at that.

She doesn’t now.

Instead, she moves closer to the body, ignoring every instinct in her gut telling her to get away. But she won’t – she can’t. There’s something she needs to check.

“Doctor –” Yaz hisses, but the Doctor ignores her, instead moving to pull out the roller the body is laid on. She brings it out halfway, before carefully reaching over to pull back the sheet from over the person’s face, revealing the grey face of a white, middle-aged man. There’s been no identification anywhere on the hatch, so she has no idea who this even is. Not Noor, clearly, but…she needs to find that out – find out all the names of the dead. At least that way, she can inform their families.

O can find that out for her, she’s sure.

But that’s not what she’s looking for right now, even as she wishes she knew who this man was before he died other than a _subject._ No, she thinks as she very carefully turns the man’s head to the side so she can shine a torch on the back of his neck. His skin is freezing cold, but she ignores it. She needs to know how bad this is.

She swallows.

“ _Uh,_ ” Ryan says, “what are _those?_ ”

“Those,” the Doctor says, looking at the three deep-looking puncture wounds that mar the man’s skin, “look like where a device like that one Yaz found would have connected into the nervous system.” She moves her hand away, shaking it like that will get rid of the shivers that are crawling across her skin.

“You still think that one was a prototype?” Yaz asks, managing to keep her voice steady. Calm.

Her thoughts are far away, lost in images of transhumanist cults cutting up their followers. But she finds herself frowning, before nodding. “Yeah. I think the device that made these was smaller – the wounds are pretty close together, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Yaz agrees. “So then – what does that mean?”

“Well,” the Doctor sighs, carefully repositioning the man’s head before recovering his expressionless face with a cloth. She wants to pretend he’s asleep – but she won’t allow herself such an easy comfort. “It doesn’t really mean much, other than we know it’s a pretty extensive connection between the technology and the body.” She takes a step back, pushing the body back into its chamber. “And I’m not sure if it’s that connection that killed these people, or the gene-editing injections. Or something else _entirely._ Some of the deaths don’t even make _sense_.”

“Maybe they don’t even know,” mumbles Ryan. “If they’re testing both on everyone at once. ‘t’s bad science.”

“Too right it is,” the Doctor agrees darkly. “In far too many ways.” She reaches forwards, pulling the hatch shut and redoing the latches. She pauses for just a moment, fingers lingering on the edge of the cold metal surface, her eyes flickering closed.

_I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I was too late for you._

But maybe not for ten others.

Her eyes flick open, and she turns back to the other two.

“Come on,” she says, already moving out of the room again. “Let’s keep going.”

“No alarms yet,” Yaz comments as they move back into the first part of the lab, and the Doctor hums in agreement. She’d noticed it too. “We might have tripped a silent one of some kind.”

“We might have,” she replies. “But I don’t think so.” She waves the keycard in her hand. “If I were Barton and some alarm got tripped down here, I’d immediately lock all the doors. We’ve not had a problem getting through anywhere.”

“But maybe it’s because he doesn’t want us to know he’s onto us,” Ryan adds.

But the Doctor shakes her head. “No, I don’t think he’d play that game. Because what’s the point? What he cares _most_ about is this stuff not getting out. If he wanted us not to find out his secrets, he’d keep us contained – he wouldn’t dare risk us getting out somehow, or finding out more than we already know. He’s all about _damage control._ Hell, he could probably even block our phones from down here if he wanted. Stop us trying to call for help if he did catch us. There’s no way he –”

She stops short as she steps out of the lab and into the corridor, Ryan and Yaz practically crashing into her back.

There’s a light on, spilling in from the other side of the open lab space.

They aren’t alone.

Her thoughts race, considering a multitude of possibilities.

One of the scientists, coming down to run some late-night tests.

(She knows what O’s like – what scientists in _general_ are like. She knows how they get).

A security guard, come to investigate.

(And that would be karma, wouldn’t it, after everything she just said –)

Barton himself.

Or –

Or maybe one of the surviving participants, making some kind of escape attempt.

She has no idea what the answer is, but one thing she does know is that she does _not_ intend to lead Yaz and Ryan straight into danger alongside her.

She may have gaps in her memories, but she knows she’s done that too many times before to too many others.

She can feel their blood under her fingernails.

She spins on her heels, facing her friends and pushing the keycard towards Yaz. She takes it, before giving her an uncertain look.

“Why –?” she starts.

“New plan,” the Doctor interrupts, her voice barely a whisper. “You two keep looking. Check the labs, keep out of sight. Try and find the participants that are still alive.”

“What about you?” Ryan asks.

“I’m going to find out why that light’s on,” she replies, flashing them the best smile she can manage. It’s pretty convincing, she thinks – she’s had plenty of practise – but Ryan and Yaz’s face immediately crumple into twin frowns of displeasure.

“What happened to ‘don’t split up’?” Yaz questions.

“Yeah,” Ryan insists. “We should go with you.”

“No,” she says firmly. “I need you to do this for me. This is _important._ ” She’s already taking a step away. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Don’t get seen. I’ll meet you back around here in ten minutes, and if I’m not here –”

“ _Doctor,_ ” Yaz hisses.

“Then just go,” she ploughs on. “And I’ll meet you at the TARDIS.”

“ _Doctor, wait_ _–!_ ” Yaz says as she turns away – but the Doctor is already gone, walking towards the light in the dark.

There’s that anxiety under her skin again. That familiar fear that’s older, deeper than her remaining memories. The light cutting through the dark.

She shoves it down even deeper.

Now is _not_ the time.

She cuts straight across the open plan space and towards the corridor where the light emanates. It’s the furthest one – where she imagines she’ll find Lab 08. She pauses just as she reaches the entranceway, glancing over her shoulder to check that Ryan and Yaz haven’t followed. But she’s alone, and so she turns back, risking a glance around the corner.

Unlike the other corridors, there are three doors, not two. The first two are just as the others were – one on each side of the corridor. The other is right at the end, left ajar, yellow light spilling out of it.

The Doctor frowns, before moving towards it.

Once she reaches it, she discovers it opens out into another corridor, curving around and away, out of sight. The lights are on full, and she squints against it as her eyes adjust. It seems – well, she’s not quite sure what to make of it, if she’s honest. But she doesn’t want to hang around in plain sight, so she quickly considers her options – left or right.

Thankfully, whoever has turned the lights on makes her decision for her, by dropping something with a light clatter that would seem inconspicuous otherwise, but feels deafening in the otherwise silent lab.

To the right it is, she thinks, as she steps out of the doorway, almost running down the corridor.

She stops abruptly when the hallway widens out into what looks like a large storage room. At a glance, she now understands why the lights are on – if someone is looking for something specific, there’s no way they’d be able to find it in here in the pitch black. Whoever it is seems to be silent again now – and she’s not sure if that’s a good sign or bad. If it means they’ve heard her and they’re keeping quiet on purpose, then it could be bad, _very_ bad – she doesn’t exactly _want_ to get captured by security right now, or get jumped by a random scientist. But if it’s one of the participants, it could just mean they’re hiding, because they’re _scared._

And so, she moves forward, keeping close to the end of one of the large sets of shelving. Ears straining.

Still nothing.

Her blood is rushing through her, adrenaline soaking into her muscles.

She’s ready, for whatever this is.

A peak around the corner –

And there’s nothing. Just two rows of shelving, full of equipment.

“Huh,” she can’t help but say under her breath – maybe they’re in the next row along, but she was so sure that –

And then, without warning, there are hands grabbing her, one wrapping around her chest and another clamped tightly over her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we don't have time to unpack all that -
> 
> Totally didn't forget to add that I drew [the Doctor's tattoo](https://picnokinesis.tumblr.com/post/640326495135514624/in-case-anyone-wondered-what-the-doctors-tattoo) if you wondered what it looked like!


	11. Chapter Ten

“ _Don’t scream,_ ” says a voice that she can’t quite place, urgent. The Doctor doesn’t scream – she _fights,_ immediately writhing, wrestling herself out of her captor’s grip. Or, at least, she _tries_ to, but these hands are stronger than she realised and _dammit dammit DAMMIT_ she can’t breathe she _doesn’t like being TOUCHED –_

“ _STOP,_ ” the voice hisses again in her ear, and this time, she registers that it’s feminine. She forces herself to think, to cut through the panic – and that’s when she realises that the jacket on the arm that is holding her tightly is a dark brown leather one, and not the coarse black material she’d expect a security guard to wear.

She makes herself still, heart hammering in her throat and breathing sharp and fast. She can’t beat this person with brute strength, whoever she is, even as her muscles strain, desperate to fight, to get _out._ But maybe, just maybe, if this person is on her side –

(– and she has _no_ reason to think that but somehow, _somehow_ she _knows –)_

“I’m going to let you go now,” says her captor. “But don’t scream, and don’t _run_ for goodness sake.”

Slowly, almost cautiously, the arms wrapped around her loosen their grip. The moment they’re slack enough, the Doctor wriggles out, darting out of reach like a terrified cat, like any second she’s going to be grabbed again. But she doesn’t run, instead spinning on her heels to face her attacker, her breaths still coming in sharp, shallow gasps. She can’t quite help the way her mouth drops in surprise as she takes in the person before her. A woman, dark-skinned and broad shouldered, looks back at her with raised eyebrows.

“ _You –_ ” she starts, and then frowns, recognition teetering on the tip of her tongue. “I saw you _before_ – _this morning._ You were –” What had she been doing? “You were _health and safety,_ you said. They wouldn’t let you in _._ ”

And now the words have tumbled out of her mouth, it all clicks into place. _Yes._ The woman has traded her practically fluorescent pink shirt for a drab, dark top, and a brown leather jacket. But her wardrobe isn’t the only thing that’s changed, not by far – the woman’s entire _demeanour_ is different, her beaming grin and musical voice traded for a smirk that tugs at the corner of her mouth and a controlled tone that practically radiates a cutthroat kind of competence.

“Very good,” the woman replies, clearly deciding there’s no point in bothering to keep up some kind of pretence. “Would you believe me if I said this was a routine check, all by the books?”

“Not a chance,” the Doctor shoots back. “Unless putting unsuspecting journalists in chokeholds is standard procedure.”

The woman scoffs at that. “That was _hardly_ a chokehold.”

The way she says it sounds like a thinly veiled threat, as well as condescending as hell. The Doctor tries to supress the urge to bristle. 

“I know _that,_ ” she snaps in response, definitely bristling. “Who are you really, then? What are you doing here?” She takes a daring step forward, her heart still racing irritatingly fast. Ugh, she _hates_ being touched without warning, right down to the core of who she is. “And why’d you _grab me_ like that, who _does_ that?”

The woman just hums, apparently amused, before crossing back over to the aisle she must have been looking through before the Doctor stuck her nose in. “Wasn’t sure who you were. Thought it was best to be cautious. As for what I’m doing here –” she glances over, looking down at the Doctor, who suddenly realises this woman has at _least_ a head of height over her – _ugh_ , why does this _always_ happen – “I suppose it’s the same as you.”

“What, you’re investigating unethical human experimentation?”

“Something like that,” is all she gets back, the woman now focused on whatever she’s looking for amongst the equipment in front of her. The Doctor tries to follow her gaze, see whatever it is she’s trying to find – but she can’t quite figure it out. It doesn’t really help that her mind is reeling, trying to work out who the _hell_ this woman could even _be._ Is she another journalist, going in under the radar as health and safety when actually she’s investigating? But then why is she being so _cagey,_ surely if _that’s_ the case then she would have said she was a journalist too when the Doctor had mentioned it. And what kind of journalist _attacks_ people from behind like that? She shouldn’t really judge but most of the journalists she knows are kick-ass _metaphorically,_ but somewhat fall short in the _literally_ department. But who else would go undercover like that to –

Wait –

_WAIT –_

“Are you a government agent?” she hisses. The woman gives her a strange look.

“You think I’m a _spy?”_ she asks incredulously, like it’s the most ridiculous idea in the world – but there’s something about the way she says it, the way she doesn’t even stop in examining the object in front of her. She’s said it too easily. Like it was prepared, _planned_ almost. Like it’s something she _expected_ her to say.

Like she’s been ready to dismiss the idea before the Doctor even walked into the room.

“I didn’t say spy,” the Doctor replies, a grin tugging at her lips. “But I’m _right,_ aren’t I?” She thinks of Noor Khan’s consent form crinkling in her hands – of Hidayat hiding behind his front door, too nervous to say what it was his sister did. “You’re here because one of your own went missing, and you’ve tracked her down to here.”

The woman’s hands stop now, and she turns to look at the Doctor, emotions carefully locked away behind her eyes, her gaze entirely focused on her. Anyone else might have shrunk away underneath it, but the Doctor has her own special kind of brash arrogance running through her veins, and she doesn’t even _know_ the meaning of _backing down,_ and so she just stares back, defiant.

“Who are you?” the woman asks, like she’s mildly curious.

“Who are _you?_ ” the Doctor fires back.

The woman, somehow, seems amused. “You can call me Ruth, if you like.”

“Alright then,” she replies. “You can call me the Doctor. Whether you’d like to or not.”

The woman – _Ruth –_ just scoffs at that. “I’m _not_ calling you that.”

“Well, you’ve not exactly got anything _else_ to call me.”

“‘Little woman’ will do,” Ruth replies, already turning back to her shelf, and thus missing the look of unbridled fury that inevitably flashes across the Doctor’s face.

“You will _absolutely not_ call me that,” she snaps, because she’s many things but she is _not_ a woman, and she won’t be called _little_ by _anyone._

“Well I’m not calling you _the Doctor,”_ Ruth replies, before turning and walking away down the aisle. “Do you even have a doctorate?”

The Doctor follows her, bristling. “That’s _not_ the point! It’s a _name –_ a _promise._ ”

“Uh huh,” comes the response. She picks up something that looks like some kind of monitor, turning it over. She clearly sees what she’s looking for on the bottom, as she starts working to detach something. “And by any chance is that promise something completely pretentious like _helping_ people?”

“Like having a doctorate is _less_ pretentious than trying to _help people,_ ” the Doctor snaps back, before realising that Ruth has managed to derail the entire conversation away from what she _actually_ wants to talk about, and made it all about who _she_ is instead. She bites back a growl of frustration – _dammit._ Ok. Definitely a government agent – that was a pretty smart move. “Back up. What are you actually _doing_ here? If you’re looking for your missing secret agent buddy, then you’re not going to find her in _here._ ”

“What makes you think I’m looking for her?” Ruth replies smoothly, like she’s humouring a child, not taking her eyes off the device she’s still working at. “Maybe she’s supposed to be here. Maybe she’s exactly where she wants to be.”

The Doctor hesitates for a moment, momentarily unsure – could it be that? Maybe it could. But…

But Ruth is trying to make her believe that, so she’s going to believe the _opposite,_ actually.

“But she’s _not,_ is she?” she says, taking a step forward. It’s not exactly an intimidation tactic – she gets the feeling Ruth isn’t going to be scared of someone like _her._ But it does take her closer to the device, which she fully intends to yank out of Ruth’s hands the moment the opportunity arises. She needs to know what’s so interesting about it. “She ended up in here by mistake. She was trying to figure out what was going on, wasn’t she? Only she ended up _in too deep,_ and now she can’t get out. And so you’re – you’re picking up where she left off. Trying to find out what she found out in case she’s dead. Or – or you _know_ she’s dead and –”

Ruth just laughs, still not looking up. “It’s funny that you think you’re making any sense at all.”

And that _itself_ is enough to tell her she’s on the right lines – because if she’s _right_ then the first thing Ruth is going to do is dismiss her, make it sound _stupid._ But it isn’t, it _isn’t –_

“But I am making sense,” she says, taking another step closer. She just needs to distract her – pull her attention away for a moment. And she has the perfect card to play to do it. “Because if Noor Khan is dead then the least you can do is finish what she began.”

At the name, Ruth’s head snaps round to look at her. “How do you know that name?”

Without even a hesitation, the Doctor lunges for the device.

There’s an extremely brief moment where she actually manages to catch her by surprise, and the monitor comes loose in her hands but stays firm in the Doctor’s grip. But in the next moment, Ruth _retaliates,_ knocking the Doctor back with a hard enough blow that it sends her crashing to the floor, the device slipping out of both of their hands and hitting the ground right along with her. The Doctor blinks, but quickly scrambles up, ignoring the screaming from her shoulder, the precursors of what will probably be an impressive bruise, and instead leaps forward, making a grab for the monitor. Ruth reaches it at the same time, and their hands clench around it simultaneously, locking them in a small tug of war. The Doctor realises pretty quickly that Ruth is definitely a _lot_ stronger that her and the chances of her winning this are deep down in the basement, at best. But that’s fine, she decides – she doesn’t _need_ to _win._ She just needs to _see_ what Ruth was looking at.

The back of the device is faced up, and she can see clearly what Ruth had been trying to get off.

Some kind of attachable module. Something to transmit data, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s _small,_ and well concealed, looking almost like it’s meant to be there.

It’s something that had been _put_ there by someone, perhaps. Something that had clearly gone unnoticed by the scientists working in the labs.

Something Ruth had wanted.

The Doctor lets go abruptly, falling backwards against the rough carpet with the sudden release. She makes to scramble to her feet and get out of arms reach, but Ruth recovers quicker than her and grabs her by her jacket collar before she’s even standing, yanking her the rest of the way up and pressing her against the shelving hard enough for the frame to dig into her back.

She’s trapped.

That old panic shudders through her chest again like a raging flock of frightened birds, and she can’t quite conceal the way her breaths come in short, rapid gasps, even as she keeps the fear from her face, twisting her mouth into a cocky grin.

“What is that?” she asks. “Some kind of transponder?”

Ruth just stares right at her – and this time there is no controlling of her emotions. Her eyes are burning with fury and _danger_. “Do you have _any_ idea how much I could hurt you if I want to?”

And the Doctor should really just _shut up,_ should actually do the sensible thing for once in her life and maybe she’ll get out of this in one piece, but –

But, well, even when her past has missing pieces, she knows she’s _never_ done that.

“But do you want to?” she answers, meeting Ruth’s gaze with an unyielding one of her own.

Ruth narrows her eyes, still holding her firmly – but the Doctor is staring right at her, and there’s no way she can miss the flicker of uncertainty in the woman’s eyes.

“Well,” Ruth says smoothly, after a silence that stretches on just a moment too long. “I’d rather avoid it.”

The threat lingers beneath her words, a shark in the water.

“Comforting,” the Doctor quips back, even though she is without doubt the fish in this scenario. She shifts under Ruth’s grip, lightning scintillating across her skin, thoughts racing through her mind and her heart hammering fast in her throat. “I don’t think you’re going to need to. If we really are looking into the same thing, then we’re on the same side here.”

Ruth regards her carefully. “I suppose that means you think we should be sharing information.”

The Doctor tries to hide how she shifts in discomfort with a shrug – dammit, she _wishes_ Ruth would just let _go of her_ – “It’s in our best interests.”

Ruth adjusts her grip, loosening her hold on the Doctor slightly. “It’s in yours, perhaps. I already know what I need to know.”

“You don’t know how I know about Noor,” she counters. “And you don’t know that I’ve got a source on the inside of VOR.”

Ruth’s brow furrows with a frown. “One of the scientists?”

The Doctor just smiles at her. “Oh, sorry, thought you knew everything you needed to know.”

Ruth clearly resists the urge to roll her eyes, before taking a step back, letting go of the Doctor completely. And even though she’s still _close_ , enough to be uncomfortable, the lack of direct contact makes the tension leak out of her. She leans back against the shelving, hiding the way she feels like she wants to slide to the floor.

“If you’re working with one of the scientists,” Ruth states, “that would explain how you know Khan’s name. But –”

“But not how I know she’s an agent,” the Doctor replies, about ninety percent sure she’s right – and she’s bluffed her way with a _lot_ less than that before. “Then again, I am _very_ good at my job, so you could just put it down to that.”

Ruth scoffs. “I doubt you’re that good.”

“Just can’t take the truth, can you?” the Doctor quips back. “See people like you all the time, ‘m used to it.”

And she always – _always –_ proves them wrong.

Ruth just shakes her head, clearly deciding she’s done with this conversation, before moving to pick the abandoned monitor up off the floor. The Doctor stays still, watching as she manages to remove the device from her pocket and slips it into her pocket.

“So, it’s something of yours then, right?” the Doctor says, not expecting Ruth to give her even the barest hint of an answer – but if she keeps asking questions, maybe she’ll give something away by accident. People tend to. “And by yours, I mean the shady government division that you work for.”

Ruth’s face twists into a smirk. “Something like that.”

She puts the monitor back on the shelf, before moving away, back down the aisle, clearly having got what she came for. The Doctor pushes away from the shelving she’s leaning against to follow her, keeping pace despite her infuriatingly shorter stride.

“So, some kind of information gathering gadget? Collecting information from that monitor?” she spitballs, watching Ruth’s face carefully to gauge her reaction. It’s unhelpfully impassive, but that’s ok. The Doctor can work with that. “Was it Noor’s? Was she investigating this place before – what? They realised who she was? Put her in the experiments? But then why would they bother making her fill out a _consent_ form?”

She’s following Ruth down the corridor she’d come down before, and expects her to turn left to go back through into the area with all the labs – but she doesn’t, continuing straight on instead. The Doctor almost considers bringing it up, thinking about Yaz and Ryan. She doesn’t think it’s been ten minutes yet, but even if she’s longer, it’ll be fine – they’ll both head back to the TARDIS, and they’ll be _safe –_

And, well, they might worry about her.

They _will_ worry about her.

If she’s learnt anything at all over the last week or so, it’s that.

But – well.

She’ll be ok. And so they’ll be ok.

She hopes.

“Are you planning to talk to yourself constantly?” Ruth asks. “Because if you are, we have a problem.”

“Maybe if _someone_ would talk back to me this conversation would be a little less one sided,” the Doctor says in a very, _very_ reasonable tone.

Ruth makes an unimpressed sound, like she can’t quite believe how _stupid_ her present company is. “I’m more concern about not getting _noticed._ Honestly, I’m almost impressed you managed to get this far into this place with the amount of noise you were making. I could hear you a mile away.”

“Alright then, _Special Agent Ruth,_ ” the Doctor replies, deciding _not_ to mention the fact that O gave them a hacked keycard. She’d like to keep some things close to her chest, thanks. “Not all of us can be –”

“Doctor,” Ruth interrupts.

“What?” she replies, secretly pleased that she’s actually using her name.

“No, it’s _Doctor,_ ” Ruth corrects, before giving her a distinctly smug look. “Some of us actually do have a PhD, you know.”

If the Doctor could have rolled her eyes any harder, they'd have somersaulted right out of her head.

“A PhD in what, having a stick up your –”

“ _Shh,_ ” Ruth hisses sharply, just as they reach a door in the wall to their right. She pauses beside it, rummaging for something in her pocket, before pulling out a small, round device. She presses it against the keycard pad, and it whirrs for a moment before the pad beeps, and the door clicks open. The Doctor bites back the inane comment that had teetered on the tip of her tongue for a moment, deciding that if she wants Ruth to let her come with her, she does _actually_ need to shut up, just for a few minutes.

After all, she isn’t a _complete_ idiot. And she doesn’t particularly like the idea of getting caught either.

If Noor had really been investigating here – if they had really put her into the experiments once they discovered her –

O had been very right to be afraid.

The room she enters behind Ruth is dark, but the light that spills out from the corridor casts the contours of the room into relief, catching on the corners of computers and equipment that seem to line the room. The Doctor’s not quite sure what to make of it – is this another kind of lab? Data analysis, perhaps? That would make sense, she supposes.

Ruth seems, again, to be looking for something specific that alludes the Doctor, immediately crossing over to the other side of the room. And so the Doctor starts snooping on her own, pulling her phone out of her pocket and switching on the torch. She casts the light along the nearest worksurface, which is cluttered with notes and unwashed coffee cups amongst computer keyboards and monitoring devices. She glances over the notes first, trying to make sense of the scrawled handwriting.

_Subject 13: kasaavin intergration appears cohesive. Rapid response to commands, systems running effectively. Issue with cranial node highlighted in Subject 4 now addressed, lag eliminated_

She frowns, before glancing back at Ruth. The agent has got herself onto a computer, and seems to be looking through something – or perhaps downloading files. She half wonders why she hasn’t tried to get rid of her yet, before deciding that, for the moment, Ruth would probably rather keep her within her sights. But that’s fine by the Doctor. She decides, for once, not to draw attention to herself, and continues along the workbench. There’s not much else of interest or use to her – she presses a couple of buttons, but nothing comes on under her touch. She finds a business card too – or, at least, that’s what she _thinks_ it is. As business cards go, it’s pretty useless – just a black card with a white logo – a circle with a silhouetted rhino’s head, and no writing that she can see. Still, she pockets it, before crossing over to the other side of the room. It’s then that she notices the wall in front of her – it’s not _actually_ a wall at all, but some kind of…black out glass? Or a very sleek-looking shutter? (She, honestly, would not put it past VOR to have developed something like that). She shines her torch on the adjacent wall, looking for some kind of switch or lever that might bring the shutter up (or make the glass un-blacked out? Ugh, she doesn’t even know these days). But there’s nothing obvious, irritatingly. Perhaps it’s at the other end. She looks up, down the work surface to where Ruth still sits, tapping away at the computer. The Doctor walks down towards her, shining her torch on the wall just behind her head.

“Do you _mind?_ ” Ruth says, holding a hand up to shield her eyes.

“Sorry,” the Doctor replies, even though she really isn’t. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen a –”

It’s at that moment that she walks right behind Ruth, and catches a glimpse of what’s on the computer screen.

“– switch…” she finishes, the word trailing off as she stares.

On the screen, Ruth appears to be running some kind of search – scanning through the entire database of the computer, at a guess. And one of the search criteria seems to be an _image_ – a very particular image.

A white logo on black – a circle, with a rhino’s head.

“You recognise this?”

The Doctor breaks her gaze away, looking back at Ruth. The agent is staring at her, eyes urgent, a finger jabbing at the logo on the screen.

“No,” she replies. “Well –”

She pulls the card out of her pocket, flipping it round to show her – but keeping it carefully out of reach. She doesn’t want to risk Ruth snatching it off her.

“Where did you get that?”

The Doctor indicates behind her with her head. “Just over there. Why? What does it mean?”

She doesn’t expect Ruth to say anything – or expects a snide comment of some kind. But the woman just sighs.

“Nothing good,” is all she says.

The Doctor frowns, not quite sure what to make of that. She opens her mouth to say something, more questions ready to pour out of her mouth – but then falters. To Ruth’s left, just next to where she’s standing now, is a switch embedded into the work surface, helpfully labelled _lab lights._

Hm.

She’s been avoiding turning lights on so far, but perhaps if she can _see_ properly, she’ll be able to find whatever button she needs to press to see through this wall-glass-thing.

She reaches down to flick it on before she can think any better of it, bracing herself for the room to suddenly become brighter.

Only it doesn’t.

Because, apparently, this isn’t the lab.

The lab is on _the other side_ of the glass.

Ruth stands from her chair, looking through in horror right along with the Doctor.

Before them, each laid out prone on beds and hooked up to IVs, are the remaining participants. Beside each one is a monitor, and trails of heartbeats and blood pressures travel from one side of the screen to the other. Despite the sudden light, none of them stir – not even a fraction.

“They must’ve been drugged,” Ruth says darkly, clearly noticing the same thing. “So they can make sure none of them run off in the night whilst no one’s watches.”

And is that a precautionary measure, or something they did because someone _tried it?_

She’s not quite sure which would be worse.

“There’s ten here,” the Doctor says, thinking aloud, an unsettling feeling growing in her chest the longer she looks through the glass. “Which means there’s got to be at least another two rooms like this, because they started out with thirty –”

“There’s not ten,” Ruth says.

The Doctor blinks. “What? No, there’s –”

She counts them. Two, four, six, eight –

_Nine._

And then, at the furthest end, is an empty space, big enough for one last bed.

“There’s one missing,” she murmurs.

“No,” Ruth corrects. “They’ve taken one away.”

She doesn’t look at the Doctor as she speaks, eyes transfixed on the other side of the glass.

“Another one has died.”

“Come on, Ryan,” Yaz hisses, glancing back over her shoulder for what is probably the tenth time. He’s just a few metres behind her, bringing his hand up against the light of her phone torch.

“Oi,” he says, and Yaz winces, quickly pointing the light at his chest instead.

“Sorry,” she says. “Just stick with me, alright? It’s way too creepy here to be on my own.”

It’s better saying _that_ than _‘I’m worried one of us is gonna end up caught if we split up’_ , which is what she’s _actually_ thinking. With the Doctor having run off (– _again,_ she can’t help but think, but she pushes the thought down –), she doesn’t want to lose Ryan too. Although, that said, the lab _is_ creepy. But then, she supposes anywhere is at night with all the lights off.

“You’re telling me,” Ryan murmurs in agreement as he catches her up, joining her in the doorway. “Where we going next, then?”

Yaz tries to give him the semblance of a smile, before turning to look behind her, torch casting light down the rest of the corridor. They’ve just checked the other lab, finding nothing more than more equipment they both agreed they hadn’t seen since secondary school biology lessons – and more much more advanced besides. Ryan’s attempt at figuring out what was under a microscope had been thwarted by the fact there wasn’t a slide under the thing in the first place – but, if Yaz was honest, she didn’t think he’d turned the light on in order to see anything anyway.

The light shows there’s no more doors down this corridor. Yaz purses her lips, considering.

“When we came in,” Ryan says, clearly sensing her indecision, “there were another corridor, weren’t there? Like, before we came through into this bit, I mean.”

“Yeah, there were,” Yaz replies, her own curiosity beginning to overtake the anxiety of the whole thing. _Good._ That’s how she likes it. She wonders, briefly, what the Doctor would do – where she’d look – and decides that it’s most likely that this lab area is all the same sort of stuff. Whereas they have _no_ idea what’s down those other corridors.

“Let’s check them out next,” she says, already heading back that way. She clutches the keycard in her hand, tight enough to leave an indent in the skin. “Come on.”

“You sound like _her,_ mate,” Ryan grumbles, but he follows right along with her, keeping stride. He checks his watch. “Said she’d be back in ten. It’s been about five.”

Yaz huffs. “No _way_ will she be back in ten. Fifteen at least. Come on, we’ve got time.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he agrees. “Might as well scope out the most of this place.” He pats his camera. “Still gotta get some good shots.”

Yaz’s smile is a bit more genuine as she reaches the main door, pressing the card against the pad. “That’s the spirit.”

The corridor beyond stretches in both directions, and on a whim, Yaz decides to turn right. For a moment, there’s nothing – it seems this building is full of featureless corridors that just keep going on and on. But then they come to a door, right at the end. Well, it narrows down the number of places they need to look, Yaz thinks. That’s a small mercy.

She glances over her shoulder once more, even though she knows Ryan is the only one with her, before teasing the keycard out of her own tight grip and opening the door. This door doesn’t open straight away, but instead gives a long _beeeeep_ before there’s a click, and the door slides open all by itself.

“Weird,” Ryan comments.

“Yeah,” Yaz replies, taking the first step past the threshold. Ryan joins her, and the door automatically shuts behind them. The room beyond is cool, just like the morgue, and she half expects to find a wall of hatches again. But instead, she just finds shelves upon shelves of specimen jars. She makes the mistake of shining her torch across them, and her eyes make out the shapes of –

What looks _too much_ like human organs for her liking.

That first night she’d met the Doctor, they’d seen something similar – a dilapidated warehouse in the middle of Sheffield, filled with jars upon jars of things ready to be sold on the black market. She’d hoped she’d never see anything like that again. But this, somehow, is worse – at least that first time, there’d been the grim, gritty reality of the situation. The desperation of blood, sweat and screams that almost seemed to line the walls. The rational irrationality of it all. This? This was cold, clinical – _detached._ The people who had done this weren’t desperate, weren’t insane. They were intelligent, logical scientists, taking the scalpel to their fellow man in the name of –

Of what?

Making humanity _better?_

If this is what it takes, Yaz wants no part in it.

“That’s –” Ryan says, before his voice falters. “I mean, those are –”

“Yeah,” Yaz says, not really wanting to discuss it, if she’s honest. “Come on – we need to figure out _why_ they’ve got all this.”

“Uh, because they’re creepy?” Ryan answers. He takes a hold of his camera. “Shine your torch on them for a sec. Need to get a photo.”

She does, forcing herself to look over the shelves as she stands there, listening to the _click, click, click_ of his camera. Once he’s done, she moves closer – most of them are labelled, and whilst the handwriting isn’t the _clearest_ in the world, she manages to make out some of the words. Enough to get a _sense_ of what they’ve preserving them for.

“I think,” she says carefully, “they’re trying to see if the gene-editing stuff had any effect?”

“Why couldn’t they do that when the organs were _in_ the bodies, though?” Ryan asks.

“Maybe they’re from the participants who died. Maybe it’s trying to figure out why they died of organ failure,” Yaz replies, frowning. She runs a finger over a label. _Subject #34,_ it reads. Her frown deepens.

“Hang on,” she says. “Didn’t the Doctor say there was _thirty_ participants?”

“Yeah,” Ryan replied. “Yeah, she did – well, I mean, that’s how many of those forms she got from O.”

“So then –” she starts – but then cuts off, pulse suddenly rapid in her chest.

There are voices coming from the hallway.

She looks at Ryan, their eyes locking in fear.

“ _Hide,_ ” she hisses, before glancing around and realising there _is_ nowhere to hide where they are – but there is another door, leading into another room. She reaches out, grabbing his arm and pulling him in the direction, thankful that this next door just pushes open under her hands and doesn’t require the keycard. This room is dark as well, but her phone torch catches on an overhanging worksurface, the edge of which is hidden by a large cabinet. She yanks Ryan down and underneath it, hoping he’s able to duck his head in time. There’s a large box on the floor nearby too, and she pulls that across in front of them before curling up as small as she can and switching her phone torch off. With any luck, the people out in the corridor won’t even come into this room. But if they do, she just prays that they won’t see either of them, hunched up together with no escape route.

They’re pressed up right against each other, so close that there’s no way Ryan won’t be able to hear her heartbeat thundering in her throat.

 _Please,_ she prays. _Please please please please –_

She hears the beep of the first door. Beside her, Ryan tenses.

There’s silence for a moment – no talking, no nothing. For one, horrible moment, she wonders if they left something out of place in the other room, something _obvious_ to show that they were in there –

“No, I _told_ you,” comes a voice that she immediately recognises as Barton’s. “We need to be _careful_ – we’re close to a breakthrough and I don’t want to risk this falling into a competitor’s –”

He breaks off suddenly. There’s a pause.

“Yes, I _know_ what we agreed,” Barton says testily, and Yaz abruptly realises that he’s talking on the phone. “Yes. Fine. This had better work. But so you know, I don't _appreciate_ last-minute changes of plan.”

There’s another pause. Yaz racks her brain, trying to figure out who on earth he could be talking to. It’s got to be about this technology he’s developing down here – unless there’s some other ‘breakthrough’ he’s working towards. But it sounds like he’s talking to someone in _charge_ of him – or, no, not quite. Someone equal. That sounds more like it, but –

But Barton is the _founder_ of VOR.

Who’s equal to him when it comes to his own company?

“Fine,” Barton says, cutting her out of her thoughts. “Look, I’ve got to go. I left my bag in one of the labs.” A beat. “Yes. Bye then.”

Then there’s nothing but the sound of Barton’s footsteps in the other room, getting louder until there’s the slight groan of the door as he pushes it open and enters into the room where Yaz and Ryan are hiding. Yaz resists the urge to hold her breath, instead focusing on making her breathing as _quiet_ as humanly possible. It’s probably pointless – at this point, her heartbeat is so loud it could probably be heard a mile away.

Barton must do something with the lights, because they come on halfway, dimmed slightly so they’re not too bright. She hears him muttering to himself as he moves around the room, too preoccupied to notice the two intruders squashed into the shadows. Instinctively, she closes her eyes, like maybe he’ll sense it if she’s staring right at him.

“Bag, bag, bag,” he murmurs. “There it is.”

She hears him move to go.

Then –

He stops.

Her heart is in her throat.

“Ah,” says Barton, sounding unsurprised, almost _smug_. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

Dread floods her lungs, cascading through every vein, into every limb. She can’t move – she can’t _breathe._ They’ve been caught, they’ve _both been caught_ and it’s her fault it’s _hers,_ if she’d just done what the Doctor had said and hadn’t gone _off on_ like this, and she’s dragged _Ryan with her –_

“There have been…obstacles,” says a gruff, but feminine voice that she doesn’t recognise. She opens her eyes, only to see that Barton had never been looking in their direction, hidden under the counter. He’s looking back at the door instead.

Someone must have followed him in.

Barton sighs, bag in his hand. He looks distinctly unimpressed. “Yes, I’m aware. But I told you to be _discreet._ ”

“We _have_ been discreet,” argues the woman.

Barton scoffs. “Please. You left a dead body in the middle of the street, and now you’re running around trying to clean up your mess. And what for? At least if you’d left the body here, we could have conducted some further _analysis._ ”

“Do not question our methods,” the woman replies, and Yaz hears her take a step closer, and another, until she’s within her line of view, standing right next to Barton. She’s broad shouldered, pale-skinned, with a short, close-cropped tuft of blonde hair on her head. She’s decked out in all black, all padded like she’s some kind of soldier. She’s carrying a helmet under one arm, and on her shoulder there’s some kind of logo. A white circle, with some kind of shape inside. A rhino’s head, she thinks – but she has no idea what it means.

Irritatingly, she can’t get a glimpse of the woman’s _face._

“I can, and I _will,_ ” Barton says, his frustration growing palpable. “We already had a journalist crawling all over the building today – a journalist from _Sheffield –_ and some bimbo from health and safety.”

“Unrelated,” the woman replies, brusque. “And unimportant. Unless you’re incapable of dealing with them?”

Each word that she grinds out of her mouth is dripping with danger, and Yaz knows, deep in her bones, without even _knowing_ who this woman is, that she would be more than capable at dealing out whatever violence she deemed necessary to get her way.

Barton seems to notice this too, and some of the aggression leaks from his stance, even as he tries to maintain his confidence. “No. We’re more than capable.”

“Good. Because protecting the reputation of your company is _not_ under my contract.”

Barton hums. “No. It’s not. But if you’re going to do things _outside_ of your contract, then I have a _right_ to know what they are.”

“Not your concern,” comes the reply. “Need to know basis.”

“Exactly,” Barton says between gritted teeth. “And I need to _know,_ since it’s starting to affect _me._ ”

The woman makes an irritated noise in the back of her throat. It’s a long moment before she replies.

“A message needed to be sent.”

“To who?”

“Not your concern.”

Yaz watches as Barton’s hand clenches around the handle of his bag.

“Fine,” Barton says, clearly deciding to pick his battles. “Just make sure you don’t dump that next body in the _street_ this time.”

The woman doesn’t say anything for a moment, but Yaz can practically sense the look of displeasure that must be on her face. “Just let us know when Kasaavin is _working. We_ will take care of the rest. The project must continue as planned _._ ”

“It _is_ working,” Barton snaps back, before his voice becomes smoother, placating. “We’re just ironing out a few kinks. It’ll be ready very soon.”

The woman just grunts in a way that is somehow affirmative, clearly not _happy_ with the answer, but accepting it. She turns, but before Yaz gets a chance to look at her face, she’s already gone, marching out the door in boots that stomp against the plastic of the floor. She listens as the door shuts, before she hears the beep of the next one. Her eyes flick back to Barton, watching as he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, clearly unnerved. Then he opens them again, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thinks he’s looking directly at them. But then he shakes his head, heading straight out the door, his bag still clutched tightly in his hand.

Even after the door beeps for a second time, it’s a long, long moment before either of them dares to move again.

It’s Ryan who shifts first, clearly uncomfortable, and that’s the only catalyst Yaz needs to push herself up and shoot out from under the worksurface, juddery with nerves.

“What was _that?_ ” Ryan asks, stumbling out from underneath, his own eyes wide with fear. “Yaz –”

“I don’t know,” she replies, shaking her head, her eyes fixed on the door that Barton had just left out of. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, just breathing heavily. She purses her lips. They need to wait it out – give them a few minutes, at least, to be out of the corridor before they leave. And that’s assuming that they leave, and don’t go back into the other lab –

– the lab where the _Doctor_ is.

Yaz curses under her breath.

“What?” Ryan asks.

“I just hope the Doctor’s not doing something stupid,” she returns, even though the chances of that are _extremely_ low. The Doctor is _always_ doing something stupid. She forces herself to wait another minute, counting the seconds under her breath, before glancing at Ryan. He’s already looking back at her, expectant.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go.” 

The Doctor is nowhere to be seen by they get back to the main lab space, and so despite Yaz’s urge to search the whole basement for her, Ryan is ever sensible, and persuades her to head back to the TARDIS. It’s been more than ten minutes by this point, so it’s pretty likely that the Doctor has already begun to head over there, expecting them to be waiting. Although, Yaz thinks if _that’s_ the case, there’s a high chance she bumped into Barton on the way out and just ended up getting herself caught. But she sighs, and lets him lead her towards the lift, and just desperately hopes with each floor that they ascend that her friend will be waiting for them by that van of hers, complaining at them for taking so long.

But as they leave the building and head down the dark Manchester streets, the winter wind howling in their ears, there’s no sign of her. The TARDIS, several roads away, sits silent without its owner.

She doesn’t dare speak.

“She’ll be fine, Yaz,” Ryan says, like he’s trying to make himself believe it. And Yaz knows he’ll blame himself if she isn’t _._ If she never makes it out of that building and they left her behind.

But Yaz will blame herself just as much.

“But how’s she going to get _out?_ ” Yaz replies, clutching her jacket tightly around her chest and wishing she’d brought a coat. “We’ve got that _keycard._ ”

Ryan opens his mouth, then closes it.

“She’ll find a way,” he answers. “She _will,_ Yaz. She always makes her way back.”

Even after four weeks with no contact. Even when she gets herself in way too deep.

Even when she loses all her memories.

She’s always picked herself up, found a way to keep running.

Yaz _knows_ this.

She’s seen it herself.

But –

Her spiralling thoughts are cut off by the sound of voices coming from around the corner. Her head snaps up, eyes scanning the dark. It takes her a few seconds to spot them, walking down the road towards them. Two figures – one of whom, without a doubt, is the Doctor, her short stature and expressive arm movements a dead giveaway, even if Yaz hadn’t been able to catch the sound of her voice.

“– _tell me!_ ” she manages to make out. “Come on! You know I’m only just going to go and look it up anyway!”

“And you’ll find _nothing,_ ” says the other figure – a tall, broad-shouldered woman that Yaz can’t place. Has she seen her before?

The Doctor just snorts. “You underestimate my skills.”

“And _you_ underestimate their ability to keep themselves under the radar,” the woman replies, before stopping suddenly. The Doctor stops with her, already turning back. “Just stay out of this. For your own sake.”

“Never done anything for my own sake,” the Doctor shoots back.

“For your _friends,_ then.” The woman turns, and Yaz can practically feel her eyes boring into them. “That’s them, right?”

“What?” The Doctor turns to look at them – and in that moment, the woman has stepped off the curb and is gone, walking in the other direction without turning back. The Doctor glances back, caught by surprise.

“HEY!” she calls, making half a move to run after her, but seems to decide against it. “HEY, where are you going!?”

But the woman doesn’t even look over her shoulder.

Yaz watches as the Doctor stares after her for a minute, fists clenched tight, before she gives a growl of frustration and storms towards them, grumbling like an angry thundercloud.

“Doctor?” Ryan says, confusion practically pouring off his tone. “Who was _that?_ ”

“Someone very irritating and _very_ unhelpful,” the Doctor replies, ever helpful. “And also tall? Did you notice how tall she was?”

“She wasn’t _that_ tall,” Ryan replies – unwisely, Yaz can’t help but think. But the Doctor doesn’t bite – she just sighs, the tension completely leaving her shoulders.

“You ok?” Yaz risks asking.

“Fine,” the Doctor replies curtly, before looking up at the two of them, face suddenly creased with a frown. “Are you two alright? Sorry I was a bit of a while, I bumped into that woman back there, pretty sure she’s a government agent, I _said_ there were agents, didn’t I? And then we found the last of the participants too, and they –”

“We saw Barton,” Yaz butts in, the urgency to tell her what they’d witnessed growing past bearable.

The Doctor stops in her tracks. “What?”

“Yeah, we went into this other room – it was proper creepy, organs in jars and all that,” Ryan explains. “And then we heard voices, so –”

“We hid,” Yaz completes. “And then Barton came in with this other person –”

“Who?” the Doctor interrupts.

“I don’t know,” Yaz answers. “I couldn’t see her face.”

“Me neither,” Ryan says. “But she was wearing all tactical gear like, weren’t she?”

“Yeah, she were.” Yaz frowns, trying to think. “And there were some sort of logo on her uniform. A white circle with –”

“A rhino head,” the Doctor completes. Yaz stares at her.

“How did you –?”

The Doctor rummages in her jacket pocket, pulling out a black card. She flips it over, and on the back is the exact same logo Yaz had seen before.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she confirms, before meeting her friend’s piercing gaze. “But what does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” the Doctor admits, her eyes serious, before a grin tugs at the side of her mouth, wildly out of place. “Isn’t that great?”

“I mean –” Ryan starts, but the Doctor’s still going.

“I mean, _government agents?_ Some kind of _secret, shady_ organisation? Dead bodies in the basement? This case has got it _all,_ ” she says, suddenly springing into action, dashing round to the driver’s side of the TARDIS. “And I’m going to use it to bring Barton down so hard he won’t even know what’s hit him.”

Yaz reaches up to pull open the passenger side door, hefting herself up into the shotgun seat just as the Doctor does the same on her side. Ryan is left opening the other door, clambering inside and leaning forward onto the back of the front seats.

“Did you really say government agents?” he asks, a grin of his own quirking at his lips. The Doctor flashes him one of her own.

“I did,” she says, punctuated by the jangle as she pulls the keys out of her pocket and starts the engine. “That woman I was talking to? Government agent, I’m _sure_ of it.”

“For real?” he says.

“Yep. She had little gadgets and everything. Stuff to get through the doors without setting off the alarms.” She pulls the TARDIS out of the parking space, and Ryan gives a low whistle.

“Whoa,” he says. “I mean, I know I was saying, but an _actual spy._ ”

“Just because she’s a government agent of some kind, doesn’t mean she’s a spy,” Yaz argues.

“It kinda _does,_ though,” Ryan shoots back.

“What did she say though, Doctor?” Yaz presses, wondering what’s made her so sure she’s an agent of some kind. Surely it was more than her having fancy gizmos.

“I name-dropped one of the participants – the one me and Ryan thought might be involved with the government somehow because her brother wouldn’t talk about her job.”

“And?” Yaz presses. She glances in the side mirror, catching sight of car headlight behind them.

“She immediately wanted to know how I knew the name.” 

She watches as the car turns off behind them. “So she knew her.”

“She did. And the fact that I knew the name worried her, like I shouldn’t have known it.” A pause, filled by the click of the indicator as they turn the corner. “What did Barton say? To that person you saw with him?”

“It was right weird,” Ryan says. “He seemed mad at her. Like she’d messed up or something.”

“She said there were _obstacles,_ ” Yaz remembers. “And he said they hadn’t been discreet enough.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “And she were right mad that he was questioning what she were doing. Kinda sounded like it weren’t just her, though.”

“Right,” Yaz agreed. “Sounded like she had a team of some kind. And she said something about a _contract,_ didn’t she?”

“Yeah! And they were saying something about bodies too,” Ryan adds, a little too enthusiastic, perhaps, but all of them are at this point. “Like they’d left one where they weren’t supposed too.”

“So was it like he was in control of them?” the Doctor asks. Yaz turns to look at her, the passing streetlights illuminating the frown on her face every few seconds.

“I couldn’t work out who was in charge of who,” Yaz admits.

She watches the Doctor let out a breath, face twisting as she mulls over the new information. For a few moments, she doesn’t say anything.

“What’re you thinking?” Yaz asks.

“I’m thinking,” she mutters, “that this case is a bit more complicated than I initially thought.”

“So what do we do now?” Ryan asks. “I mean, do we still have enough evidence to take him down?”

They pull up to a junction, and the Doctor waits, tapping her fingers on the wheel.

“You got pictures, right?” she asks him. “Video?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Then that’s a start,” she answers, tracking a car as it cruises along, before pulling out behind it. “When we get back to O’s place, we’ll go over what we have, and then – well, then we’ll work from there. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Yaz replies, settling back against the car seat. She glances in the mirror again, seeing another car behind them.

She shouldn’t think anything of it. There’s nothing to suggest anything is out of the ordinary.

But, for some reason, there’s something about it that fills her with dread.

Yaz keeps her eyes fixed on the mirror for the rest of the journey back to O’s place. The car follows with them for long enough for her to wonder if her fears _are_ justified, before it ends up overtaking them on one of the main roads. She’s not even sure what’s got her so paranoid anyway. They weren’t seen in that room, she’s _sure_ of it. Well, she’s pretty sure, but mainly because she doesn’t think that woman would have even hesitated to take them both out there and then if she’d seen them. There had been something about her that had just _radiated_ danger. And as for Barton – well, if he’d seen them, there’s no way he would have just walked out of that room without calling security, or at least locking them in.

But she can’t stop thinking about that conversation.

 _We will take care of the rest,_ that woman had said.

Why does she feel like she was talking about the likes of _them?_

Another car follows them a bit further down, but that one eventually turns off too, and then they’re heading down the long, dark road that leads to O’s. It’s at that point she decides she’s just paranoid. She tries to ignore the feeling, instead trying to focus on the music the Doctor has put on. The ABBA cd has been switched out for the Doctor’s go-to – a long mixtape of songs that, allegedly, have been recommended to her by several people over her life, although she never says _who_. In fact, Yaz is pretty sure that the Doctor has forgotten quite a few of the stories behind how she got those songs, as much as she pretends that she _does_ know, and just doesn’t want to say. But she knows for certain the Doctor remembers who gave her the song that is _currently_ playing – because Yaz suggested it herself.

It had been way back, only about a month or so after they’d first met her on that crashed train. The Doctor’s headwound was well on the way to healing into a jagged scar across her temple, and she’d somehow persuaded everyone that she was perfectly fine to drive, actually. Of course, this was after they’d spent almost a week trawling the city for any sign of the TARDIS, since the Doctor had abruptly remembered that it _existed_ , but, unhelpfully, not where she’d _parked_ it.

But Yaz had decided to hop in the TARDIS with her – mainly to make sure there was someone who could actually _drive_ in the front seat in case it all went pear-shaped. And that was when she’d first heard the mixtape, and the story behind its eclectic tracklist.

 _“Can I give you a song?”_ she’d asked. She could still remember how brightly the Doctor had smiled at that.

 _“Yasmin Khan,”_ she’d answered, like her name itself was a poem. “ _I would be honoured._ ”

It had taken her a few days to get back to her on that one – it’s a tough call to only pick one song, and so much more weighs on it than whether or not it’s _good_ or not. What would this song or that song _say_ about her? What would the Doctor even _think?_ What if she thought it was too weird or too standard or too – too _anything?_

In the end, she’d just put her phone on shuffle and gone with the first song to come up – a kind of Russian roulette just to force herself to make a decision past her anxiety. The song that had come up was _A Place To Hide_ by White Lies – a choice which, somehow, felt perfect.

When she’d first heard the song being played in the TARDIS, two days after she’d shared it with the Doctor, it felt like a badge of honour.

It still feels like that now, as she watches the Doctor sing along under her breath.

“ _I need a place to hide,_ ” she murmurs softly, her Yorkshire accent in stark contrast with the voice of the singer. “ _I need a place to hide before the storm begins.”_

It’s only a minute or two after that before they’re turning into O’s driveway. The Doctor doesn’t get out straight away, clearly waiting for the track to finish. Yaz knows it’s about to go into the last chorus – there’s just the instrumental at the end to play out after that, so she’s perfectly happy to wait. She loves this song herself, after all. Ryan doesn’t seem so happy, flopping back in his own seat and pulling out his phone – but he doesn’t complain, and make no move to head outside. Probably because it’s cold. Yaz can’t really blame him. The only comfort is at least there’s a warm house only a few metres away, even if there aren’t really enough beds for all of them.

There’s a sudden flash of headlights in the road behind them as a car whizzes by. Yaz just about manages to prevent herself from jolting as she looks over her shoulder. The sense of calmness that she’d managed to capture for the few minutes whilst the song had played are gone, that creeping sense of dread intruding at the edges of her mind. She watches the road, not quite sure what she’s expecting to happen. The car to come back? A light to appear?

It’s probably nothing. It _has_ to be nothing, surely?

But she can’t shake the feel that it isn’t.

The song ends with the riff fading out, punctuated by two guitar chords like distant shouts into the waiting dark. Yaz glances back, just in time to see the Doctor smile, before tapping the wheel a couple of times and yanking the key out of the engine.

“Come on, fam,” she says, already pushing her door open. “Fam minus one. Does O count as fam yet?”

There’s no hesitation in the way she jumps out of the car, clearly completely unafraid. Yaz tries to take some solace in that; attempts to swallow the sense of unease, but it just sits in her stomach instead.

“How is O part of the fam?” Ryan argues, opening his own door and crouching to get out, too tall for the frame of the car. “He isn’t even from Sheffield, mate.”

“I’m not from Sheffield!” the Doctor shoots back as Yaz unclips her belt and gets out. “I’m from Huddersfield! Well, apparently, but –”

“Only because you read it on a bit of paper,” Ryan teases gently. “But _really,_ you’re Sheffield. At heart, you are.”

Yaz watches the Doctor’s face scrunch up as she moves around to Ryan’s side, reaching in through the open door to grab the bag that she’d slung into the back. “ _Hey_ , I –”

“Do you even remember Huddersfield, though?”

The Doctor makes an annoyed, but good-natured noise as she re-emerges from the car, glancing between the two of them. “Ok, _point,_ I probably _do_ remember Sheffield a whole lot better than wherever I grew up but –”

She stops suddenly, just as Ryan turns to look at Yaz.

“Whoa, _hey –”_ Ryan says, his eyes suddenly wide with alarm, his arm lurching out towards her as he looks at something over her shoulder –

No –

_Someone –_

Because that’s all the warning Yaz gets before there’s a hand around her chest and another on the back of her next, pressing something hard and _cold_ against the back of her neck.

There’s a moment where she tries to scream – tries to fight against whoever has caught her, police training about to kick in. But then the _whatever it is_ on her neck vibrates against her skin before _piercing through and –_

And –

And then she’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all: finally we get the cliffhanger from last week resolved!!  
> Me, knowing this chapter ALSO ends on a cliffhanger: uh huh :) 
> 
> Oh! But if you were interested in the Doctor’s mixtape, you can check out the playlist I have for this au [right here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6rpYpEuOr2xsJzIpITEIBB) – technically, not all the songs are actually on the Doctor’s mixtape (and there’s a couple that will end up being added in one of the later parts), but I like to think that most of them are. I actually have some thoughts about who recommended which song, whiiiiich I’ll probably never get to actually touch upon in the fic, but we’ll see! (And for anyone who has been watching me yell on tumblr, there’s also a little anterograde au playlist on my spotify – it’s the one called ‘notes to self’!)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you thought!


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please just accept all the terribly dubious science

“So then,” Graham says, stirring milk into his tea. The spoon clicks against the ceramic of the mug. “How long have you and the Doc known each other?”

He watches as the other man looks up from his computer, hesitation crossing his expression for a moment. “Oh. A while, I suppose.”

“Oh?” Graham says, crossing from the kitchen and coming to sit at the table.

He’s genuinely curious – the Doctor is an open book, if that book were a deeply complicated mystery novel with half the pages torn out and a good few scribbled over. And as much as he’s all for respecting another person’s privacy – hell, he’s got plenty of his own secrets he’s very happy to keep close to his chest – he can’t help but feel the main reason she doesn’t tell them things is because she doesn’t know the whole story herself. That, and –

Well, he supposes he feels a little protective of her.

This O guy seems decent enough – despite his initial reservations about the man’s choice to live alone in the middle of nowhere, which in his book is definitely a red flag of someone not being quite what they seem. But the Doc clearly trusts him plenty. It’s obvious from everything she does – the way she talks about him, _to_ him, even the way she looks at him, and him at her. There’s definitely something there – some connection that he can’t quite place.

He wonders if, perhaps, there’s something between them that hasn’t been mentioned to him or any of the others. He supposes it’s quite possible – although he can’t think of any occasion where he’s seen the Doctor be _that_ way about anyone before. He does know what she’s like though – half likely to run away before putting down roots with anyone. Hell, she’s almost done it plenty of times with them, buggering off for weeks at a time before suddenly returning like nothing had changed. Yes, she’s – well. He wouldn’t say _flighty,_ because he doesn’t like to hold it against her too much. He only knows a bit about how it was for her growing up, but he knows enough to say that _stable_ probably isn’t the most fitting word for it.

If he’s really, truly honest, he is mostly just curious about O. A friend of the Doc’s is a friend of his, as far as he’s concerned. And – well, he looks a bit _stressed._ He had to pop out for a phone call with that Barton guy about half an hour back, and he’d come back looking a little…harassed, he supposes. So the _least_ he can do it try and offer up some pleasant conversation.

“Yes, well,” O says, putting down whatever it was he’d been working on. He’d mentioned it to Graham earlier – something to do with the GPS in the second keycard, reactivating it or something so he can use it again. Apparently, it had been playing up since he messed with it. He isn’t entirely sure, to be honest – he’s only a bus driver, after all. “Did she tell you that we met through another case?”

“Think she mentioned it, yeah,” he replies. “Although, I’ll be honest mate, she doesn’t really tell us all that much half the time.”

O smiles at that, like he’s endeared. He probably is, Graham can’t help but think. “Ah, yeah, she’s like that with me too. Very good at saying a lot, but not much at all.”

Graham nods. “Yeah, that’s her alright. Not that I’d hold it against her, it’s just –”

O just nods as well. “I know what you mean. You try and ask if she’s fine and –”

“She changes the subject!” Graham finishes, feeling a sudden sense of comradery as the other man laughs.

“Right,” O says, smiling slightly to himself. “That’s precisely what she does.”

Graham just shakes his head in fond exasperation, opening his mouth to say something else – but then there’s a flash of headlight as a car pulls up onto the driveway. Or, rather, a van.

“That’ll be them,” O announces.

“Well, unless you’re expecting anyone else,” Graham jokes, before getting up. “Better fill the kettle again. At least one of that lot is gonna want a cuppa.”

O hums in agreement. “Probably.”

Graham expects to hear them come in before he’s done, but by the time the kettle is rumbling away and he’s set three cups on the side, there’s still no tell-tale creak of the front door opening. He frowns, poking his head out of the kitchen. O’s still sitting at his computer, working away. He manages to catch the cadences of the Doc and Ryan’s voice from outside, clearly teasing each other about something.

“Taking their time, aren’t they?” he says – just before the sound of voices outside torques from talking to shouting, _screaming –_

Without even a second of hesitation, Graham runs, haring through the house and pulling the front door open, O hot on his heels. He stands on the porch, the dread in his chest twisting into horror as he sees the Doctor and Ryan beside the TARDIS, and Yaz limp in the arms of someone dressed in all black, head covered by a helmet.

“Let her _go,_ ” the Doctor is saying, her voice calm but her entire body vibrating with contained energy, spring-loaded. “She’s done _nothing,_ give her _back!”_

The figure just laughs, taking a step back, dragging Yaz with him. “Sticking your noses into our operation is _not_ nothing.”

Fear lurches in Graham’s chest, a cold horror creeping at the back of his chest as he takes in Yaz’s slack expression – her vacant stare…

What has that bastard _done to her –?_

Behind him, he hears footsteps moving away quickly. O must have run back into the house.

For his sake, Graham thinks, he’d better not be running away.

“So this is a threat?” the Doctor says, clearly realising that there’s a very good chance that this person could take Yaz away, and they’d never seen her again. Not alive, anyway. So, she’s stalling. Stalling until – what?

He sees her eyes flick over to him briefly, before back to the figure.

She’s got to have a plan, Graham thinks. _Please have a plan, Doc._

“Not a threat,” the figure replies, curt. “A _warning._ ”

“A warning about what?”

“That if you don’t stop,” the figure says, clearly feeling no need to specify, “then this will happen to the rest of you.”

The Doctor’s eyes flick over to Graham again, and then over to the side of the house, and then back to the figure.

Does she want _him_ to do something?

He doesn’t know.

What can he _do?_

“And what is ‘this’?” she presses. “What have you done to her?”

“Something beyond your understanding,” the figure replies, and Graham can hear the sadistic _smile_ in his voice.

“Fine,” she growls. “ _Explain_ it to me.”

The figure just laughs again.

“I don’t think –” he says, taking another step back. With another flash of fear, Graham instinctively lurches a step forward, not even sure what he’s going to do but –

But suddenly the man _jolts,_ tensing and juddering, completely losing his grip on Yaz who just falls to the floor. The Doctor leaps for her, Ryan close behind, and Graham glances over in confusion to see O, who had come around the back of the house, holding a long-reach taser in his hand.

The Doctor must have seen him coming up from behind.

“Get her away!” he shouts over, somewhat unnecessarily – Ryan and the Doc already have their hands around the girl and are pulling her to safety. Graham jumps into action, running to help them support her once they’ve got her to her feet. In that moment, O drops the taser, jumping back a few steps like he’s terrified the man is going to lunge at him. The man in question simply stumbles the moment the electric shocks cut off, turning around to snarl at his attacker. But, for some reason, the sight of O makes him stop and pause.

“Get _off_ this property,” O growls, probably not looking as intimidating as he’s trying for in his unassuming attire and looking like he’s about to start shaking any moment. “Or I’ll call the police.”

The man just stares at him for what feels like forever, but is probably just a few seconds. The whole time, Graham can only hear the pounding of blood in his ears and the rapid, terrified breathing of his family next to him.

Then, suddenly, the man runs _straight_ at O – only to dash past him and vault over the fence, disappearing into the darkness of the surrounding fields.

For a moment, none of them say anything. Instead they all stare at O, who looks like he can’t quite believe he’s alive.

“I –” he starts, staring back at them, before he looks behind him, where the man had run off. “I didn’t think that was going to work.”

“Good job,” the Doctor tells him, before turning to Ryan and Graham. “Have you got her?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says.

“Great,” she says, moving away. Graham immediately shifts to take her place, taking half the weight now. “Get her inside – I’ll just –”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, already darting up into the house. To their left, O is coming up beside them.

“O, I’m gonna need your help!” she calls from inside.

O glances at them briefly, unsure.

“Go on, son, we’ve got her,” Graham says, even as he thinks about how much his back’s going to ache for this. He’s not as young as he was, after all.

O just nods, before disappearing into the doorway too, leaving Graham and Ryan to figure out how to get a completely unresponsive nineteen-year-old up the steps and onto the porch. The fact she hasn’t even _stirred,_ even with falling to the ground like that, just makes worry coil tightly in his stomach.

“Come on, Yaz, help an old geezer out,” he says to her as they lift her up the first step – but there’s nothing. Just a blank stare. “What on earth did he _do_ to her?”

“He put something on her neck,” Ryan says, before grunting as they get her up the next one. “I think it’s – the thing they’re making at VOR. The thing they’ve been testing on people.”

Graham cranes his neck to look – and lo and behold, right there on the back of Yaz’s neck is a sleek, metallic disc. His heart leaps into his throat.

“You mean that thing that’s been _killing people?_ ” he hisses.

“She ain’t dead,” Ryan replies, like he’s trying to stay calm. “She’s still breathin’, I can feel it.”

“Yeah, but for how much _longer –”_ Graham shoots back, before realising that’s not exactly a _helpful_ thing to say. They get her up the last step, and start walking with her towards the door. “Sorry. I just –”

“I _know_ , Grandad,” Ryan replies. “I know.”

They get her into the living room as quickly as they can – which is nowhere near as quick as Graham would like, but there’s only so fast they can go when Yaz is such a dead weight and the route through the house is so _cluttered._ Whilst they get her safely onto the sofa, the Doctor and O rush around in a frenzy of activity, collecting equipment and wires and depositing them on the floor by the coffee table.

“What’s all that for?” Ryan asks, eyeing the equipment warily.

“Gotta get that thing off,” the Doctor replies shortly, crouching beside the sofa. Graham helps her turn Yaz so she’s facing the back of the sofa, her neck now easily accessible. His eyes catch a small trail of blood that leaks out from beneath the device, and nauseous fury twists in his gut.

“Just yank it off, Doc,” he finds himself saying. “Just get it off her, alright?”

“We can’t,” O says, pained, crouching at the Doctor’s side with his laptop in hand. “It’s connected into her nervous system. If we just pull it out without disconnecting it properly…”

“Like when Ryan pulled his memory stick out of his computer and all the files got corrupted,” the Doctor explains, her face distorted with a grimace as she moves Yaz’s hair away and squints at the device. “Only a lot worse and a lot more terrifying.”

“Is that what happened to the others?” Graham asks, his voice urgent. He isn’t going back to Sheffield without Yaz in tow. It’s _not_ going to happen.

“Some of them,” O replies, handing the Doctor some kind of small screwdriver. It sounds like he’s trying to be comforting, but misses by about a hundred miles. “The first ones, at least…”

The Doctor takes the screwdriver and cautiously places it under the edge of the device, moving it around. She doesn’t look away from it as she asks O: “You said there was a catch?”

“Yeah, just keep going around,” he instructs, his gaze completely focused on her. “You’ll hit it.”

It’s less than a second before she does – or, at least, that’s what Graham assumes happens, because the shell of the device unclasps, falling to the floor and exposing wiring and flashing components.

“Perfect,” O says, already pulling wires up from the pile by his leg. He passes one in particular to the Doctor wordlessly, and she examines the end before searching for the appropriate port in the device.

“I don’t understand,” the Doctor mutters as she connects the wire. “Why is she non-responsive? That isn’t what Kasaavin is supposed to do, is it? It’s supposed to stream information into your brain, isn’t it? Actually, I don’t understand why they put this thing on her in the _first_ place. What were they trying to achieve? What was the _point_ –?”

And there it is – the rush of questions that always come pouring out of her mouth whenever she’s stressed or afraid. That’s one thing that Graham has learnt about the Doctor since he’s known her – that she looks her own fear head on and fashions it into a tool that keeps her thinking, keeps her running, keeps her breathing. To her, anything that’s worth being scared of is worth trying to understand. He marvels at her for it, but –

But it scares him, sometimes. The idea that one day she’ll run headfirst into danger and never make it back. That one day she’ll drag Ryan or Yaz along with her, and only come back with their blood on her hands.

He’s seen that look in her eyes before. That desperate, fervent ache when she looks at one of them when she thinks no one sees. Like maybe she’s lost too many people before. Maybe people she doesn’t even remember anymore.

Yaz is still motionless on the sofa.

“He said it like a threat, Doc,” Graham says. “Like he would do it to us too.”

“But _why?_ Does he want us to be walking advertisements for VOR?” She scrunches up her face as she passes the other end of the wire back to O. “I suppose that is a pretty good threat.”

“Maybe it’s one of the early ones. Like, it’s faulty or something,” Ryan suggests, urgent. “Like he put it on her on purpose because he knew it would –”

“Don’t,” the Doctor snaps, like she thinks if her worst fears are spoken aloud, they’ll come into being. “Don’t say it. Don’t say anything.”

Ryan purses his lips, a look of anxious concern on his face as he watches them work. In that moment, he reminds Graham so much of Grace – so kind, and so worried about his friends – that it pinches something deep within his chest.

“Doc,” he says, hating the feeling of standing there and being completely useless as he watches O plug in his wire, before tapping away at his computer with a flurry of fingers. “Is there anything we can do –?”

Grace would be doing something, if she’d come with them. Grace would know what to do. What to say.

“Be quiet and let me work,” the Doctor says shortly, that fear of hers finally slipping through, before wincing. “Sorry. I mean –”

“’s alright, cockle,” he says softly. He decides to fall back on the thing he does best. “I’ll go get tea and biscuits.”

The Doctor just gives him the barest of nods, peering again at the device before rummaging around for something else off the floor. O glances at him briefly, expression unreadable, before he starts saying something to the Doctor that means completely nothing to him – all technobabble and not a word of English.

“Come on, son,” he says to Ryan. “Let’s leave them to it.”

It takes them about ten long minutes to safely get it off her, and the whole time sees Ryan wearing tracks into the carpet for the amount he was pacing. He hates not knowing what to do – near as much as his grandad, probably, who’d only been happy for those few minutes he’d been making the drinks. The mugs are still on the floor where the Doctor and O left them, long turned cold; the plate of biscuits is barely touched.

But, well, maybe he _does_ hate it more than Graham. It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the feeling of being completely useless in any given situation.

His whole life, it feels like, he’s had it shoved down his throat that he’s incapable. Mostly because the dyspraxia, which has always been biting at his heels – but that doesn’t mean he can’t do _nothing._ He’s not _useless,_ even though he feels like it himself sometimes. It weighs on him heavy, like a stone weight around his neck, dragging him down. He knows he’s believed it at times – for a long time, actually. But he’s starting to get good at things – being a mechanic, using the camera. Being a _friend._ He’s good at that, he thinks.

Even if he’s feeling pretty rubbish at _that_ now too.

But – it was something his mum said one time. Back when his hair was long enough for her to run her hands through when he was lying in bed, worried about school and playground mates and all that came along with that. He doesn’t remember what specifically he’d been stressing over – but he remembers what she _told_ him. He can still hear her saying it, in that voice that he aches to hear again, if only it wouldn’t hurt him so much.

“ _Sometimes,_ ” she’d said to him, “ _sometimes being a good friend doesn’t mean fixing things. Sometimes it just means staying.”_

And so that’s why he’s here, sitting beside the sofa and waiting for Yaz to wake up. Staying.

The Doctor and O are in fervent discussion over the dining table, taking apart the device that had been embedded on their friend’s neck and trying to figure out precisely how it worked. The Doctor isn’t so good at the aftermath, Ryan thinks – and he doesn’t mean that uncharitably. It’s just the way she is. She’s _all_ about fixing, and not so much about dealing with the emotional fallout that inevitably follows. It’s in her name, after all. Because for all she takes the title of a medical professional, her bedside manner leaves a _lot_ to be desired.

That said, he’s met plenty of _actual_ doctors in his time that fell short in _that_ department.

But someone needs to keep an eye, and so Ryan is on Yaz Duty. Which is a good thing – because whilst he doesn’t know how to take apart a piece of cutting-edge technology like he can take apart a car, he _does_ know how to sit with someone.

How to stay, in the aftermath.

It’s what his nan would be doing right now, he thinks. What his dad failed to do.

And so, it’s up to him to do that in her stead.

He’s got his laptop open on his lap, and he’s supposed to be looking through all the photos he took over the last twenty-four hours. There’s...well, a lot, but that’s just how it goes. Whether there’s any _good_ photos or not is the real question. The ones of the jars of organs give him the creeps, so he’d decided to work through the ones from that morning first.

But, well. He’s not really focusing too well on it.

His mind is too busy.

That guy from earlier – he’d been another one like that woman he and Yaz had seen talking to Barton. Same logo on the shoulder and everything. Did that mean they did get seen when they left VOR? But then why didn’t they attack them earlier?

Maybe it was because that woman were with the Doctor.

Could she really be a government agent?

He sighs, leaning back against the sofa with a thump.

And then, as if the motion had disturbed her, Yaz stirs.

He stares at her for a moment. “Yaz?”

Her face screws up, before her eyes blink open, heavy with sleep. Carefully, Ryan puts his laptop to the side and reaches a hand to rest on one of Yaz’s arms.

“Hey,” he says softly, trying to think what his nan would say. “Hey, you alright mate?”

She probably wouldn’t have said that.

Yaz is quite _clearly_ not alright.

“Ryan?” she says.

“Yeah,” he replies, half thinking he should shout to the others, call them over. But the words falter on his tongue. He doesn’t want to overwhelm her.

Yaz blinks a few more times, before looking around blearily. He sees the moment when she remembers what happened, her eyes snapping capital-O open and her hand lurching to the back of her neck, where all she’ll be able to find is the bit of gauze they’d put over the weeping wound.

“ _Ryan_ –” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

“I know, mate,” he says, his voice low. “It’s alright – we got it off you. Well, the Doctor an’ O did.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment – doesn’t even move.

“You ok?” he asks.

She frowns, like she’s not really sure.

“I thought –” she starts, before faltering. She glances over at him, fixing her gaze on his face. “It was just nothingness. Nowhere…”

He stares right back at her, his mouth hanging open like he wants to say something. But he has no idea what to say to that.

But sometimes you don’t say anything.

Sometimes you just need to be there.

“I was alone,” she says. “And I thought –” She breaks off again, looking away, like he hasn’t already seen the pure fear on her face, the tears in her eyes. Like it hasn’t already shaken him to the core.

Yaz is brave. Always has been, always will, he reckons. Even when she don’t believe it herself.

To see her like this…

“I thought I was _dead,_ ” she breathes.

“No,” he says, urgent, because he knows _exactly_ what to say to that one. “I'm _never_ going to let that happen to you.”

Even though he knows it could have happened right there, right then. And there wouldn’t have been a damn thing he could have done about it.

But if he has _any_ chance – if he has _any_ say in the matter…

He will not let another member of his family slip from his hands.

Not one more.

Yaz’s hand finally moves away from the back of her neck to wipe her eyes. A tear leaks out anyway, rolling down the contours of her face.

She doesn’t say anything else for a while after that.

“So you really haven’t had chance to look at one of these up close yet?” the Doctor asks O, frowning at him.

“Not really,” he replies, examining the device in question closely. He squints at one of the components, before leaning over to his computer and tapping away. “Barton had only just got me involved in the project when I first came to you, so for a while I only really knew what I’d given to you. I’ve seen the specs, but I haven’t actually had chance to take a proper look yet.”

“And what do you think?” she asks. She’s already had a look at the thing, and there isn’t much she likes about it – but she will admit that it’s an impressive feat of technology. If it really works the way it’s supposed to, they’ve managed to condense some pretty powerful processing capabilities into something really rather small.

It’s not like it’s an uncommon phenomenon – everything is getting smaller these days, more efficient, more streamlined. But this is something that _interfaces_ with the human nervous system. Something like that doesn’t just work overnight without some impressive science.

But then, it probably hasn’t been _overnight._

“I think,” O murmurs, looking at the device again, and then back at his computer screen, “that this looks very very not good.”

Her frown deepens, mouth falling open to ask him why, but before she can speak, he’s swivelling his computer around so she can see what he’d been doing. On the screen, she finds the interface programme he’d been using when they’d been trying to get the device off Yaz. It shows some kind of wave function, but she’s not quite clear as to _what._

“What am I looking at?” she asks.

“This is the electrical output made by the device into Yaz’s…system, I suppose, for lack of a better word. Of course, you and I both know that the nervous system works via electrical impulses –”

“Exactly,” she interrupts, jumping to what must be the next line of thought. “So then this is the device, what, tapping in? Sending signals to her brain?”

“Precisely,” he says, “which is what I expected – but then I noticed this too.”

He reaches around to tap a couple of keys, and another wave function appears beneath the first.

“I couldn’t figure out what this was at first,” he admits, “but then I realised that the connection between my computer and the Kasaavin device was two way, not just one.”

“It sent you information?”

“Yes, _precisely,_ ” he replies, “and so then I thought it was sending me back its own output, but watch –”

He presses another key, and the wave functions begin to play in tandem. The Doctor watches them, a sense of foreboding growing over her as she watches the first wave grow stronger – and the second, which had been healthy at first, grow weaker and weaker until it’s diminished to nearly nothing.

“They’re not the same,” she says. “In fact, I’d say the first one _overrode_ the second.”

O nods, his expression grave. “Yes. That’s exactly what I thought too.”

“So then –” Her thoughts are racing, considering and discarding conclusions quicker than she can put them into words – until she grasps hold of one, and _yes – yes but no that means –_ “the second wave function is _Yaz’s._ The electrical impulses from her own _nervous system_.”

“Which means that, _somehow,_ the Kasaavin is _supressing_ it,” O concludes. “Which would, frankly, be rather brilliant if it wasn’t so terrifying.”

“You can say that again,” the Doctor replies, reaching over to the computer to replay the recorded wave functions, watching again as one falls and the other takes over. She points a finger at the screen. “What’s the rate on this recording? How fast did this happen?”

“Less than a second,” O says.

_Less than a second._

She remembers the look on Yaz’s face – of her brief, fleeting look of terror, before she just _shut down._

She pushes the image out of her mind.

It’s all too close, everything about this case – the human experimentation, the aggressively interfacing technology, the blank, emotionless look on her friend’s face. Too close to those memories she almost wishes were still lost, of bodies twisted and wrong at the hands of their own leaders, of those left worse than dead at the hands of the Cybermen.

She never should have let that thing get anywhere _near_ Yaz.

And if she doesn’t wake up –

If she _never_ wakes up –

Well. She’ll do what she did the first time. She’ll tear VOR down, raze it to its foundations until _nothing_ is left but the earth beneath it, riddled with the skeletons of their own making. And then she’ll take what’s left of her family back home, where they’ll be _safe,_ and then –

Then she’ll go.

And she’ll stay gone.

Because if Yaz doesn’t come out of this…

Then maybe the Doctor should never have come back to them in the first place.

“Doctor?” O says, his tone careful, his brow furrowed with such open concern. She looks at him, meeting his eyes. There’s something there she can’t quite describe, can’t quite explain. Something inside her twists, and she’s not sure if it’s fear or guilt or something else entirely.

She doesn’t want to lose him either. Especially not now.

“Sorry,” she says. “Just – thinking. I don’t like any of this.”

“I’d be shocked if you did,” he returns, offering her something of a shy smile. “But you’re going to figure it out. We both are.” He pauses, like he’s searching for the right words. He holds his hand out towards her, across the table, palm open and inviting near her hand – but not touching. “You’re not alone.”

She hesitates for a moment, but then takes his hand, grateful that he let her make the choice. She manages something close to a smile.

“I know,” she says – and for once, it doesn’t feel like a lie.

Because O has given her exactly what she needs without her even needing to ask – they’ve dived straight into figuring out the _how’s_ and _why’s,_ following through the threads of this investigation rather than stopping and sitting and _waiting._ It’s the waiting she can’t stand – Ryan’s good at it, and Graham too, she thinks. Yaz less so, perhaps. But that’s why Ryan’s waiting with Yaz now, standing vigil until she wakes (because she will, she _has_ to), and why Graham is in the kitchen, probably trying to make another round of tea that none of them will drink whilst he messages Grace. The Doctor can’t do that – she can’t be _still,_ doing nothing. She’s constantly moving, constantly _running_ from one thought to the next, her hands desperate to be busy and her mind desperate to be _thinking._ Coming up with answers, _solutions._ She craves it – needs it like _air._

O must know that by now. He must have seen it in her, even when all he could see were typed words in his inbox. But he’d immediately got them working again, pulling the Kasaavin device apart and uncovering more pieces of the whole puzzle of this case.

And she’s so stupidly _grateful_ for that, now she thinks about it.

But she can’t put the sentiment into words.

And so she doesn’t, instead just flashing him an attempt at a smile and returning her attention to the device.

“So,” she says, pulling her hand back, thoughts beginning to swirl through her mind. “This device isn’t just about streaming information into the wearer’s mind – it’s also able to, what? Block signals from your own body? That sounds dangerous.”

“It could explain some of the deaths,” O says, tapping the table absentmindedly. One two three four. “The organ failures. Signals not being able to get to the brain. Maybe they couldn’t find a way to _unblock_ them. Their bodies just shut down.”

The Doctor nods, because _yes,_ that’s got to be it – all those deaths that didn’t make sense before now slot perfectly into place. “And the seizures – those could be caused by the electrical input _from_ the device.” A thought suddenly occurs to her, and it sends a chill rippling across her skin, dread unfurling in her chest. “What if it can control people?”

O frowns. “You mean through sending electrical impulses?”

“ _Yes,_ ” she says, leaning forward on the table, unable to stop herself feeling a flicker of excitement even despite how much the concept terrifies her. Or, maybe, _because_ of it. Fear keeps her smart, after all. “If it can cancel out the body’s own signals, and _replace it with its own,_ maybe Yaz didn’t stop responding because she wasn’t getting any signals –”

“But because the Kasaavin _made_ her,” O finishes, his own eyes sparking with flickers of both horror and exhilaration. “So then the question is –”

“What else can it make someone do?” she completes. “And how much control does VOR have over what it does?”

“I can answer _that_ one for you,” he replies, taking up the device and showing it to her, pointing at a component. “See that? That’s a micro-transponder –”

“Long-distance?” she asks.

“Of sorts,” he replies, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. “It latches onto local wi-fi signals and uses that to transmit and receive data. A way of being constantly ‘up-to-date’, supposedly.”

“So, VOR can access the device at any time,” she concludes. “And control it.”

“Yes.”

“But _why?_ ” She glances away, back at the scattering of wires on the table – at the bloodstained handkerchief she’d used to wipe away Yaz’s blood from her neck. She thinks of the unconscious participants she’d seen in the labs – how she and Ruth had decided they were drugged, but now she’s thinking that they weren’t at all. Her thoughts flash back to that interview with Barton in his office, when he’d sat there and she’d known, she’d _seen_ that he was the kind of man who would do whatever it took to get what he wanted –

_“–And you know what I’ve learnt?”  
he says, smile all jagged edges,  
“It’s that you can’t entirely   
trust everyone.   
Nor can you control   
what other people   
are going to do –”_

She goes still.

  
_“– But the things  
we’re doing here,”  
he says,  
eyes flickering with a fire  
he’s kept hidden from her  
this entire time  
“– are going to change   
the face of humanity.   
For the better.”_

“It’s about control,” she murmurs. “It always has been.”

Her gaze snaps back to O, meeting his eyes.

She finds something there that she can’t… _quite_ decipher.

She opens her mouth to say something, but before the question can tumble out, she’s interrupted by Graham returning from the kitchen, cups of tea in hand – only he stops and stares for a moment. Not at them, but in the direction of Ryan and the sofa Yaz is lying on.

“Is she _awake?”_ he asks, his tone half-disbelieving, half-desperately hopeful.

The Doctor stands up, chair scraping against the floor, and moves so she can see what Graham’s seen – that Yaz is no longer prone on the sofa, but rather sitting up on one elbow.

“Uh, yeah,” Ryan says, already putting his hands up in defence. “But –”

“Well why didn’t you _say_ something?” Graham says, accusatory, already moving around to the other side of the sofa. He dumps the mugs he’s carrying on the coffee table before turning his attention completely on Yaz. “Blimey, are you alright, love?”

The Doctor moves too, although not as fast as Graham had. And she should be rushing over there, desperate to make sure she’s ok, but –

But Yaz’s shoulders are hunched, and Ryan’s eyes are wide, and –

And they’d been speaking so quietly that she and O hadn’t even _heard_ them, sitting only a couple of metres away.

She already knows that Yaz isn’t ok.

“Just be quiet, alright?” Ryan says, his own voice low, but stern. “She only just came to. Don’t overwhelm her.”

“I ain’t going to!” Graham protests. “I just –”

“ _Grandad,_ ” Ryan hisses.

“Ryan, it’s fine,” Yaz says – and her voice is weak, too weak for the Doctor’s liking. Yaz’s voice should never be weak. “I’m ok.”

Oh, how the Doctor recognises that lie.

She’s told it far too many times before, after all.

O comes around to her right, reaching out a hand to her arm for a moment, but hesitating just before he actually touches her. The Doctor glances at him for a moment, and he meets her eyes before turning to Yaz, his voice gentle.

“Is there anything you need?” he asks.

There’s a moment of silence, before Yaz shakes her head.

“Thanks, but,” she says, “honestly, I think I just need to go to bed.”

Ryan nods, affirming. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

“What about a cuppa?” Graham presses, trying for a reassuring smile. “A cuppa always helps, eh?”

Again, for a moment, Yaz says nothing. And then:

“I think I’ll just turn in. Thanks though, Graham.”

Graham just shakes his head. “Don’t thank me,” he says, before waving a hand at the Doctor and O. “Thank those two. They’re the ones that took that blasted thing off you.”

And that’s when Yaz sits up further and turns, looking directly at both of them. Even in the low, yellow light, she can see the glistening of tears in bloodshot eyes, the way her jaw quivers ever-so-slightly –

The way she looks _haunted._

And it’s so different to how she looked before – a blank slate, her face _empty._ No, she looks _alive_ now – alive and hurting and so, so scared.

It should comfort her, she tries to persuade herself. Because this means Yaz will be ok – that she hasn’t lost her. Not yet.

_Not this time._

The Doctor folds her arms over her chest and turns her face away, closing her eyes.

No.

Yaz shouldn’t thank her.

She never should have let it happen in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not have an outback house rigged with a fancy sci-fi electric fence, but I DO have a scrawny scientist with a taser
> 
> Also, I do have a generic 'don't swear' rule for my fanfic, and so far across this part and what I've written of part 2 so far, Graham has broken it the most often HAHA
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!! Let me know what you thought!


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I had to google for this chapter: the Nuremberg code, useless technological innovations, and whether or not Call the Midwife is on Netflix

The Doctor sits down next to O at the table with a _thunk._

“What do you know about this conference, then?” she asks, shoving toast into her mouth.

“Good morning to you too,” he answers, looking vaguely amused from behind the rim of his cup as he takes a sip of his tea. “Which conference is this?”

“Today,” the Doctor says through a mouthful. “Barton mentioned it. At Spinningfields. Said he was giving a keynote.”

“ _Ah,_ ” O replies, putting his mug down. “Yes, that one.”

“And?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“I know he’s going to talk about some of VOR’s most recent advancements, along with their general philosophy – or something like that.” He waves a hand. “I don’t know. Barton doesn’t tell me about those kinds of things.”

She frowns. “You’re not going, then?”

“Nope,” he says, his smile somewhat rueful. “Another day at work for me.”

The Doctor hums, taking another bite of toast and considering.

“You’re thinking of going?” he asks, clearly curious.

“Remember how I told you Barton ditched us mid-interview?” she says, glancing at him. “Well, in _return_ he said he’d put us on the press list for the conference.”

O raises his eyebrows. “That was…charitable.”

“I take it he’s not normally so kind?” Figures, she supposes.

“It’s been known to happen,” he responds, his face scrunched.

She hums again, thinking. Last night had been – well, _a lot,_ is one way to put it. There’s a small part of her that just wants to lie on the sofa and not think about anything ever again, and another that wants to run away entirely. But they’re only small parts, and she has no intention of letting them have any say in the matter. She doesn’t stop, not for one moment. She can’t. Not when there are ten people still in that lab.

 _Nine,_ presuming Ruth was correct in assuming that another had died.

She doesn’t like to think what _else_ they might have done with a participant.

But she pushes the thought aside – her original point still stands. She can’t sit idle when there’s people stuck in that place who need her.

“Well, I’m not gonna question my luck,” she says, before taking the last bite of her toast and leaning back in her chair. She swallows, for O’s sake more than her own, before she starts speaking again. “Besides, I need to talk to him again anyway. Wanna present him with some _difficult_ questions about the nature of his basement labs.”

“Now I _wish_ I could be there to see that,” O replies, eyebrows raised, before they concertina into a frown. “Although I don’t understand _why_ you’d give him the opportunity to cause you more trouble.”

She shrugs. “The things I do for journalism ethics. Plus I always kind of enjoy getting thrown out of fancy events.”

His eyebrows shoot off into the stratosphere. “Each to their own, I guess.”

She can’t help but smile at him, despite everything.

There’s a familiar sound of stumbled footsteps, and she turns just in time to see Ryan appear in the doorway.

“Y’alright?” she asks him, brow creasing. He gives her a so-so gesture as he makes a beeline for the kitchen.

“And Yaz?” she presses, a little more cautiously.

Ryan pauses this time, just by the doorframe. She can’t quite see his whole face, but she catches enough of the grimace to know that the answer isn’t _good._

“She didn’t sleep all that much,” he says quietly, before he looks at her. “But I think she’ll be alright. It’s just the shock, innit?”

Beside her, O hums. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

The Doctor considers it for a moment. “You both up for this conference?”

Ryan frowns, before nodding. “If Yaz is going, sure.”

And there’s that unspoken alternative – _if Yaz isn’t up to it, I’m staying and looking after her._

The Doctor knows he doesn’t mean it as a slight against her. Ryan’s too kind for that – and if he _did_ have a problem with her, he’d say it outright, wouldn’t just hide it behind silent sentiments. But she still feels a bloom of guilt at it anyway. She put her friends in this position, and now she’s just dragging them all further into the fire.

Ryan must see something of it on her face, because it doesn’t take him long to pipe up: “Don’t worry, I think she will be.” He turns to go in the kitchen, but pauses for half a second to throw a comment over his shoulder. “She’s too much like you!”

And, well –

She supposes she can’t really argue with that one.

Spinningfields Conference Centre is a sleek, imposing building right in the middle of the business sector of Manchester – which, instinctively, makes the Doctor’s skin crawl. She can’t help but pull a face at the sight of it, but a friendly elbow from Graham makes her hide it quickly.

“Look,” she complains, “I can scowl at it all I _like_ from the outside. No-one’s watching.”

“If you say so, cockle,” Graham replies good-naturedly.

“Besides, I thought you _liked_ this stuff,” Ryan says.

“Oh, I _do,_ ” she shoots back “– but we haven’t got to the good stuff yet.”

She glances over at Yaz, who hasn’t said anything yet – but her eyes are fixed over on the building ahead of them, her face controlled and calm.

The Doctor wonders how much she’s hiding under the surface. But she doesn’t ask.

She knows when _she’s_ hiding stuff, that people _asking_ about it is the _last_ thing she wants.

“Come on,” Yaz says – and to the Doctor’s relief, her voice sounds normal, all the terror of the previous night buried away. “We don’t want to be late.”

“Too right we don’t,” the Doctor replies, already striding forward ahead of the others. Yaz keeps up, but the boys lag behind slightly – enough that there’s some distance between them, but not so far that the Doctor can’t catch Graham musing about the chances of there being any food at this shindig. They wait for them to catch up by the main doors – two well-polished panels of glass which push open with a dramatic _swish –_ before heading in together into the foyer.

Her first thought is – well.

It’s a bit fancy.

“Maybe we should have come in black-tie,” Yaz murmurs, as the Doctor counts at least _ten_ people wearing perfectly-fitted suits. “I feel a bit under-dressed.”

The Doctor just shrugs. “Just walk with confidence. Act like you did it intentionally. Besides, we’re press – how smart are we supposed to be anyway? And Barton didn’t exactly _mention_ a dress code.”

“Maybe he wanted us to be the laughing stock,” Ryan says.

“Easier ways to go about it,” she replies, before she spots where they’re supposed to be headed – a small woman holding some kind of tablet by a temporary podium. She heads straight for her, the fam trailing in her wake.

“Hi!” she says, really wishing she was in black-tie _just_ for this moment, because she can’t quite resist saying – “the name’s Doctor. _The_ Doctor.”

She can practically _feel_ at least _one_ of the fam rolling their eyes behind her, and so, in order to be _vaguely_ sensible, she adds: “Daniel Barton said he’d sort press tickets for me and my team.”

The woman barely even frowns, clearly not paid enough to care, too busy looking down what is presumably a guest list. After a moment, she smiles, before handing them small, laminated press passes.

“Go straight ahead,” she says, far too sweetly.

Distantly, the Doctor thinks of Ruth – all lyrical and dripping sucrose, right up until the moment she wasn’t. But she doubts this woman is any kind of spy – if she starts thinking like that, she’d get _far_ too paranoid. So she just smiles at the woman and nods, before heading straight through the open doors behind her and into the conference space beyond.

She finds herself in a large, open-plan room with looming white walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. All clinical and clean – business-chic – and filled with swarms of business folks milling around, the air humming with the threatening inanity of small-talk. She’s instinctively opposed to the entire aesthetic, even before she realises it reminds her of the featureless, endless corridors of VOR. This is not the sort of place where she belongs, and she feels it in her bones.

But that’s ok – because the Doctor is _very_ good at making it _seem_ like she belongs somewhere she doesn’t. Undoubtably, it’s all down to practice – even with her leaking water-butt of a past, she knows that the list of places where she’s _actually_ felt like she belonged is depressingly short. It’s a helpful skill, though, she thinks. To be able to slot herself in wherever and whenever she needs.

If nothing else, it means people are less likely to start questioning her when things go wrong and she starts taking charge.

“Look!” Graham says, pointing over to the sad-looking buffet table, serving food that is altogether too small and too posh, in the Doctor’s opinion. “I said there’d be something!”

“Yeah, but is any of it gonna be any _good?_ ” Ryan grumbles. “It’s gonna be way too fancy if this lot are anything to go by.”

“With talk like that, you’re _never_ gonna be satisfied,” Graham replies, rubbing his hands, already making his way over to the table with a gleeful expression. Ryan follows, clearly interested despite his initial protests. The Doctor briefly considers following them – but then decides against it, scanning the crowd instead. She feels Yaz’s eyes on her for a moment, before she begins to look around too.

“Looking for Barton?” she asks.

“Yeah,” she replies. She can’t see him anywhere. She turns to Yaz, taking a step away. “Blend in, and keep an eye out for him.”

“What?” Yaz asks, turning back to her. “Why, where are you going?”

“Snooping,” she replies, because what else would she do here? “Plus if we split up, one of us is more likely to spot him. I’ll meet you at his speech! Whenever that’s happening…”

Yaz looks a little unimpressed, and a _lot_ like she doesn’t want to be on her own at all. Her hand has come up to brush against the strip of gauze they taped to the back of her neck that morning. “What happened to not splitting up?”

“That was in the super secret lab basement, not _here,_ ” she argues, feeling a bit guilty but squashing it down. She wants scope things out on her _own,_ to get a sense of what’s going on.

“Doctor –” Yaz protests, but she’s already walking away, off into the crowds.

“You’ll be fine!” she says. “See ya!”

She doesn’t turn back to see the disappointed expression she knows she’ll see on Yaz’s face. What good will it do, other than to make her feel more guilty?

As it turns out, _scoping things out_ doesn’t end up being altogether that fruitful. From what she can tell, the conference is almost like a technology convention, with various developers giving talks on new advancements being made, new systems being utilised in different sectors, why the last speaker’s tech is actually really flawed and the current speaker’s is so much better, _yadda yadda yadda._ She starts to think maybe Graham and Ryan had the right idea with sticking to the buffet table. But there is _some_ useful information to be gained. She hears background murmurs near constantly about the fact that Barton will be giving a talk – enough to make her realise just how much of a bigshot he is in these circles, if _these_ lot are managing to sound impressed. The information on what he’s giving the talk _about_ is pretty limited, probably intentionally, but it seems that it’s going to involve revealing some of VOR’s most cutting-edge advancements.

She’s just hoping that Kasaavin will be one of them.

It would fit in, in this sort of place – there’s more than one table showing off new types of wearable devices, and a couple that even dip a toe into the idea of _biohacking,_ which excessive monitoring of vital signs and other bodily functions, all towards the goal of ‘wearable health’, or something. Of course, what Barton’s got up his sleeve is a _lot_ more extensive than any of these lot would even _dream_ of. The question is, she supposes, is whether or not they’ll see the result as more like a nightmare.

Her experiences with transhumanism through the Cybermen makes her predisposed to hate it, maybe. But she still thinks that _anyone_ would see extensive connection into the _nervous system_ as something to be disturbed by. Surely?

These types, though…

If they can sell it –

If they can make money –

If they can make their lives more streamlined, more efficient –

Well.

They’ll eat it up so fast they won’t even notice the aftertaste of blood.

She’s so lost in her thoughts that she almost misses it, but the person standing near her turns, clearly interested in something behind him. She turns too – and sees just the person she’s been looking for.

Barton is standing with a glass of something possibly-probably alcoholic, nodding along whilst someone else talks at him. They’re clearly looking to impress the head of VOR, but Barton looks politely disinterested at best. She watches for a moment as he supresses a sigh and glances at his watch, before he’s saved by an aide coming to his side and showing something on a tablet. He dismisses his conversation partner, turning his full attention to whatever is on the screen. He frowns, and the Doctor mirrors his expression. What on earth could he be looking at?

She hopes he’ll do something that will make it clear, but all he does is thank the aide, before looking at his watch again and heading off in the opposite direction. The Doctor pulls out her phone, glancing at the time.

“He’ll be off to prepare for his keynote,” the man next to her says, who had been watching Barton too. “Are you planning to listen to it?”

 _Not with you,_ she thinks, not even glancing in his direction. But the keynote does start soon, so she should probably get a shift on. She shoves her phone back in her pocket, tuning out the man who is trying to introduce himself to her for reasons that escape her entirely. She walks off, even as he keeps up his persistent efforts to talk to her. At some point, she manages to lose him in the crowd, before heading along with the flow of people into the large conference room off to the side which is set up with rows upon rows of chairs that look rather uncomfortable.

There are plenty of people piling in, but not the people the Doctor wants. She keeps to the back of the room, near the door, watching for any sign of Barton or the fam. Her luck comes through with the latter – first Yaz, who makes a beeline towards her, soon followed by Ryan and Graham, the former of whom has managed to get some kind of food-related smudge on his jacket. The Doctor can’t help but be silently amused – maybe it’s a good thing they’re not in black-tie after all.

“Find anything interesting?” she asks them all, her eyes still scanning for Barton. 

“Not really,” Yaz mutters, sounding a bit dejected. “Mostly lots of fancy tech stuff that no-one really needs.”

“You’re telling me,” Graham says. “Who needs a fridge that can connect to the internet _and_ play Netflix? The only good thing here are the canapés.”

“Maybe sometimes you wanna watch something whilst you’re making a cuppa,” Ryan says. Graham scoffs.

“You ain’t gonna see the bleedin’ screen if you’re getting the milk out, are ya? Besides, what’s wrong with the good ol’ telly? They don’t even have Call the Midwife!”

“Think they do, actually,” Yaz replies.

“They what?”

“Shush!” the Doctor says, cutting them off before they can get any further. “Look, there’s Barton.”

The others turn to follow her gaze to the front of the room, where Barton had just entered from behind some kind of temporary wall with the conference house-style splattered over it. The assembly claps politely as he walks over to the podium, tapping the mic gently, before casting his eyes over the crowded room before him.

It feels like the entire conference is here to listen to him.

“Thank you,” he says, and the Doctor has to swallow her dry laugh. He almost sounds _genuine._

She should have realised that her dislike for him would have grown since she’d first met him yesterday. It’s one thing to hear about a man who tests his invasive technology on people without proper consent. It’s another to _see_ those participants, lying prone, paralysed by the devices inflicted upon them. It’s another to see the _dead,_ hidden away in the basement. It’s another to see photos of _organs_ in jars, harvested from the bodies.

It’s another to see her own friend blank-faced, eyes empty, with blood dripping down her neck.

The Doctor didn’t like Barton before.

She _despises_ him now.

“Thank you all,” Barton says again, now the applause has quieted down. He pauses for a moment, before looking to the projection, where his slide presentation has begun. Of all things, it shows the image of Da Vinci’s _The Vitruvian Man._ Already, she doesn’t like where he’s going with this.

“Humanity,” he says – like the word is a statement in and of itself. “One of the most incredible things you’ll find on this planet. Look anywhere else, and you won’t find anything like it. Our ingenuity – our _intelligence,_ and how we manage to apply it. It’s truly unique. Our constant desire to strive towards betterment – to _improve_ ourselves, our lives. It’s the whole driver of the technology industry – an industry that is often considered to be the _opposite_ of humanity. Robotics, computers, mathematics…but it’s really a symptom of the human condition. Our desire to grow, to be more than ourselves. To become better.”

Click. The slide changes. Images from VOR’s PR team this time, it looks like. Full of tastefully diverse stock images of people using VOR technology, smiles showing perfectly white teeth. But the Doctor’s mind is stuck in Barton’s laboratory basement, looking down at a man with too-pale skin and wounds on the back of his neck.

“To _communicate,_ and reach others. Today, I’ve already collaborated with colleagues in New Delhi and New York, and I haven’t even had lunch yet.” Obligatory chuckle from the crowd. “Less than 50 years ago, that would have been unimaginable, but now it’s just another day at the office. And the news has changed too – we know when there’s a hurricane in Fiji or a protest in Ferguson just as quickly as we know about a cat stuck up a tree in the local park. Sometimes faster. The way we can connect – share _thoughts_ and _knowledge_ – is pushing the boundaries of what’s possible, and enabling us as a global community to grow in ways we never could have foreseen a generation ago. And all of this is enabled by us – the innovators, the developers. The _engineers_ who make everything possible. Together, we’ve forged the world we see today. And we’re still forging it. Every day, we’re creating the future that our children will see as normal.”

Click. The slide now shows some of VOR’s more recent developments. But if she’s honest, she’s not quite sure why he’s bothered with the presentation. Everyone’s eyes are fixed on him.

“And no one is pushing at those boundaries more than VOR. We operate all over the world, and our expertise is more varied than any of our competitors. And we’ve begun using that to our advantage, making advancements through combining sectors in ways that have never been done before. Today, I’d like to share some of our most cutting-edge projects with you.”

He begins to go on about VOR’s more recent – but _tamer,_ the Doctor thinks ruefully – developments, that seem to impress the room. Although, she supposes, if these are the likes who think that internet fridges are useful innovation, the sort of things that Barton’s throwing up onto the screen _would_ be somewhat mind-blowing. And it’s not even that she’s necessarily _opposed_ – heck, if it’s genuinely useful and it’s going to make life easier for someone, then why not. Some of the pictures Barton is showing are bionic prosthetics that respond to minute muscle movements in the remaining limb, allowing amputees to move their false limbs. This kind of technology is the _good_ sort – the sort that actually helps people, rather than just working to achieve some kind of transhumanist apotheosis out of the blood of innocents.

For a moment, the Doctor begins to wonder if Barton won’t actually show Kasaavin. If it’s too radical, or not ready yet, or too secretive. But as he goes on, the developments he shows get gradually closer too it – more interfacing, the slow blurring together of technology and biology. He goes back to the pictures of the prosthetics again, leaning forward on the podium, and the look in his eye sends a chill down her spine.

She’s seen it before – in his office, during that interview.

That unnerving passion _._ The _obsession._

It’s toned back here, the tiger tamed. But she sees it, pacing behind the bars of its cage.

“But what if we could do _better?_ ” he says, paving the way, making the road ahead seem so smooth and full of moral integrity. “What if we could _completely_ bridge the gap between biology and technology? Make devices such as this respond directly to _thought,_ not just movement? What if we could do something so _radical_ that when you lose a limb, we could say ‘luckily there’s an app for that’?”

The crowd laughs politely again. The Doctor’s skin crawls.

“And what about day-to-day life? What if we could streamline _everything?_ Response to emails in seconds with the wave of a hand? Check the weather without even needing to get out your phone? Knowledge wouldn’t just be at our fingertips anymore – it would be within the reaches of very _thoughts,_ closer than we can even begin to conceive. It sounds impossible, right? Unimaginable.” He pauses. Clicks to the next slide. It’s a picture of the world, with light trails of connection between every major city. “Just like how our connections now seemed unimaginable to the ones who came before us.”

“I’m talking about a device that would revolutionise the way we operate as a society, the way we _learn,_ the way we _connect_ with each other. It sounds like science-fiction, doesn’t it?” And he turns to his enraptured audience, his smile full of teeth. “But the future is already here.”

She doesn’t dare breathe.

Click.

The next slide shows something she’s already seen – _Kasaavin,_ the perfect silver disc in all its sleek, elegant glory. On Barton’s slide it looks ethereal, harmless – innovative, even. Nothing like the bloodied thing she dissected over O’s table overnight after pulling it off Yaz’s neck.

“This is Kasaavin,” Barton announces proudly, without even a hint of remorse. “It’s still in development, currently, but we’ve already started our first tentative trials, and the results are… _impressive.”_

The Doctor glances beside her, to where Yaz stands, lips pursed and arms folded tightly across her chest. Her eyes flick to the gauze on her neck, and the anger which is bristling within the confines of her ribcage rumbles, threatening.

“Once it’s completed and openly available,” Barton continues, “it will change everything. Imagine a world where you don’t need a phone to call your friends, or a computer to look up something on the internet, or a tv to watch your favourite show. Where healthcare is more efficient, where constant background monitoring can catch heart attacks and strokes early, before it’s too late. Where we really _could_ help amputees with an app that adapts to their brainwaves and moves their prosthetic arm. Where any information is right there, in our own heads, just a thought away. Knowledge, streamlined. It could save lives. It will _change_ lives.”

It will offer lives to him on a plate. Free to mould and control as he pleases.

“And because this change is so vital to bringing out the best of humanity – connecting us in ways we’ve never been able to before – my company plans to make this technology not just for the elite, not just for those with enough money. As part of our operations, we’re working hard to make our technology _affordable._ Because the future shouldn’t just be for those who can afford it.” He smiles again, dangerous. “The future is for _everyone._ ”

And that’s it, isn’t it? He doesn’t just want the richest to be fusing Kasaavin onto their necks – he wants _everyone_ to. He wants it to go viral – the latest trend, the new way of life. He wants this to get _big,_ and he wants –

He wants everything.

Everyone.

“Doctor…” Yaz whispers beside her, quietly horrified, and the Doctor can just imagine what she’s thinking – her family, silver discs on the back of their necks with blank stares, unmoving. But the crowd around them don’t see it – they’re enraptured, eyes wide, like they’re witnessing the beginning of a new frontier. And perhaps they are – but not the one they’re envisaging.

And she has to admit it – Barton’s _good._ What he’s selling is _radical,_ and explained outright it might have sent everyone in the room running. But instead they’re eating it up like they’re still at the buffet table outside, with no idea that they’re selling their souls to him. They’re putting their minds right into Barton’s hands – the minds of their families, their _children._

He doesn’t go on for much longer after that, talking on more about the uses of Kasaavin, of the integration of medical science into the design (and by _that_ she presumes he’s carefully treading around CRISPR), on and on and on until the crowd are giving him a rapturous applause, many standing in their awe, and he smiles at his audience, like he knows he’s got them in the palm of his hand.

The Doctor’s hands stay by her sides, fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically.

“Come on, fam,” she says whilst everyone is still clapping, already heading towards the door. Righteous anticipation burns in her lungs. “Time for the good part.”

“Daniel Barton?” the Doctor says.

Barton turns from where he’s chattering away to some business men who’d are clearly gushing about his speech, probably trying to worm their way into some partnership or other. He’s clearly enjoying the attention, and his grin only seems to broaden when he sees who had called him.

“Hello again,” he says, moving away from his little crowd, first glancing at her before his gaze flicks over the rest of the fam behind her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d accept my invitation. I’m glad to see you all came.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss it,” the Doctor replies, her manufactured smile absolutely flawless. “Especially not a keynote like that.”

Barton just tilts his head, holding his palms out, like some sick parody of modesty. “What can I say? I’m dedicated to making a future that brings us all closer together, rather than pushing us apart. A future for _everyone,_ not just the elite.”

And it almost sounds genuine. She’s done her research – she knows the game he’s playing. That little story he’s weaved for himself – humble beginnings, working hard against adversity. She’d almost relate to it, if it wasn’t for the fact that they’re on opposite sides of the chess board, and if the splintered remains of the pawns he’s sacrificed weren’t scattered between them.

There’s no future for the bodies stacked in that lab.

“Is that why you’ve begun human trials already?” she asks, wording her question carefully. She has to ease him in – she’s only going to be able to get in a couple of the ugly questions in before things get dicey, and that’s only if she’s lucky.

Barton just nods, like he understands. “There’s always concern around human trials – when is the right time to start? And how rigorous is your testing? And those questions should be asked. We’re here to make things better for people, not worse, after all. But there is no need to fear, Doctor. We’ve had this technology in development for a long time, and human trials have only just gotten started. We’ve been taking great pains to make sure all our participants are as safe as can be. And, of course, our experiments are conforming to ethical practices.”

And, _oh,_ she sees _red_.

Every word that’s come out of his mouth is a damn _lie._

“The Nuremberg Code,” she says.

“Excuse me?” Barton replies, a frown marring his pleasant smile.

“It’s a set of ethical principles for conducting experiments on humans,” she replies. “They were developed as part of the Nuremberg Trials after World War II, to protect human participants in experiments after the atrocities committed by the Nazis in the name of science. It was made as a guide, I suppose. For any future human experimentation. Surely you’ve heard of them?”

“Oh, of course,” he replies smoothly, but she can see the flash of irritation in his eyes. He knows where this is going, she can _sense_ it. “Must have slipped my mind.”

“Must have,” she fires back. “Because the basis of ethics on human experimentation is all about _consent.”_

“Which we _have_ ,” Barton says, sounding tired.

“But is it informed consent?” A beat. “The most common violation of ethical practices is not lack of consent, but _informed_ consent. Your participants think you’re testing one thing, but you’re testing another. They think they’re signing up for one thing, but you’re _subjecting_ them to another. Are you following me, Mr Barton?”

Barton just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m following. I’m following _perfectly._ ” The word bites off, harsh, almost a growl. The tiger pressing up against the bars, baring its teeth. “I thought your investigation was all _above board._ I thought we had an understanding.”

“Oh, we have an understanding alright,” she replies, unable to stop the ruthless grin that stretches across her lips. She can show her teeth too. She takes a step closer. “I understand that your human trials are _way_ more extensive than you’re ever going to say in some swanky conference. I know that you’ve got consent, but it’s close to _useless_ with how far off it is from the actual experiments you’re conducting. And I know you’ve got a body count, Mr Barton.”

A snarl tugs at Barton’s lips, but he forces his face into a smooth, unimpressed mask. “I know your type, _Doctor._ I’ve fended off plenty of you before, making baseless attempts to smear my reputation.” His face brightens for a moment, amused, like he thinks he’s got her. “You know what my friends in America call people like you?” He pauses. “ _Muckrakers._ ”

And that’s the _wrong_ thing to say, and she can feel the fam shifting behind her as the grin on her lips twists into something a little more feral. They know. Barton has _no_ idea.

“A muckraker?” she repeats.

“Someone who _digs_ for dirt,” Barton continues, like she needs clarification. “Just to get a good scoop, no matter how fictitious it is.”

“Oh, I know what a muckraker is,” the Doctor replies, tone dripping with venom. “Ever heard of Ida M Tarbell? She was a muckraker – one of the _first_ muckrakers, back when people didn’t fling that word around like it was an insult. Because it _wasn’t._ Her world was changing, industries growing – she took on the oil industry and brought down one of the biggest companies at the time. She didn’t stand by and do nothing when the big businesses where out there, pouring out all their muck and suffocating people with it. She _raked it back,_ exposing it for what it really was _._ ”

“How admirable,” Barton replies.

“Isn’t it?” she says, taking a step closer. “Because you were right, Danny-boy. The world _is_ changing, and you’re right there at the spearhead, pushing the hamster wheel faster and faster. And to what end? To make humanity _better?”_

“To make humanity _more,_ ” he hisses back.

“And you don’t care what it takes to get there, do you? Because your _future_ isn’t for everyone – there’s no future for those people locked in your basement –”

The expression on Barton’s face shifts, realisation flickering in his eyes before it twists into smug victory. “Ah, of course. I suppose _you_ were the ones we caught on our CCTV. I’m sure you know I could get you put in _prison_ for that.”

“And risk me releasing what I found down there?” And this is the ace up her sleeve. “I wonder how well _twenty deaths_ will go down in front of a judge, or a device that can jack into the nervous system and render people _catatonic_.”

“You’re properly unhinged,” he replies, incredulous, trying for dismissive, like maybe he’s hoping she doesn’t know as much as she does, but oh how wrong he is –

“No,” she snarls, “I'm onto you. And I'm going to stop you.”

He looks over his shoulder, meeting eyes with someone across the room, before he leans down, his face right in her space. “I'm going to walk away now. And _you’re_ stay away from me for the rest of both our lives, either voluntarily or because of my security people. Understand?”

The Doctor just grins, adrenaline racing through her, not even caring about what he’s saying. Because she knows she’s got him. She knows she’s going to win this one.

“I'm really hard to get rid of, Mr Barton,” she says.

Barton just smiles at her as strong hands place themselves over her shoulders.

“Are you?” he replies.

Mere moments after the four of them have been politely, but very _forcefully_ pushed out of the building and told very firmly _not_ to come back in, the Doctor is whooping at the sky.

“YES!” she shouts, punching a hand in the air, before giving another little whoop. “Oh, I forgot how much I loved that.”

“What, being thrown out?” Graham asks, eating the pathetically-sized sandwich he’d managed to grab off the buffet table as they’d all be escorted away.

“Of course!” she replies, turning to face the others. They look a bit – well, haggard. But then, she can’t really blame them for that. It’s been an intense few days, and whilst that’s _normal_ for her, they’d been going through Doctor-related-withdrawal only a week or so ago. “That’s the best bit!”

“Nah mate,” Ryan says, a smile of his own growing. “The best bit is watching him call you a _muckraker_ like you’d think that’s a _bad_ thing.”

She grins back at him, before turning again, heading back away from the conference centre and starting down the steps. She’s practically buzzing now – all small victories and stubborn righteousness. There’s no way she’s backing down now.

“What’s next, then?” Yaz asks, rushing to walk by her side. “You asked him about it, gave him chance to say something –”

“And he just dismissed it,” she replies, “which – well, that’s his problem now. He knows that I know, even if he pretends I’m crazy.”

“So what are you gonna do, Doc?” Graham pushes again. “If he knows now, then he’s gonna be on extra alert, right? Gonna start clearing up after himself an’ all that.”

And he’s right. Her breakneck pace slows ever so slightly as she turns that thought over. She thinks of those participants still stuck in that lab. What’s Barton going to do now?

If she’s going to make a move – if they’re going to get those people _out_ of that lab before Barton erases any ‘evidence’ of the experiments…

Then they need to do it _soon._

“Tonight,” she says, “We’re going back into that lab.”

“ _Back?”_ Ryan says. “But won’t he be expecting us?”

“Exactly,” she replies. “Which is why we need to act as soon as we can – and we can’t go down there in the day time.” She looks at him. “We’ve got to get those people out. Back to their families.”

As she watches, Ryan’s expression softens into something more pained.

He knows better than most how it feels to have family taken away. And even if he _didn’t,_ he’s a good lad. Heart of gold, just like Grace. He wouldn’t stand by when he could do something to help. He _doesn’t_ stand by.

“Yeah,” he says, brow furrowing with that determination she knows so well. “We’ve gotta.”

“Tonight, then,” Yaz says, her voice sounding surer than it has since the previous night. The Doctor turns to look at her, on her other side, and Yaz gives her a curt nod. The same anger that’s bristling in the Doctor’s ribcage is burning in her eyes. “Let’s do it.”

There’s a pause, before Graham sighs.

“Well,” he says, “I suppose I never exactly hang out with you lot for a quiet evening in, do I?”

But he’s looking at the Doctor, and he’s got that same look about them that they all do. That hunger for justice. That need to make _amends._ She meets his eyes, and he gives her a reassuring smile that gives her all the confidence she needs.

“I’m with you, Doc,” he says. “We all are.”

The wind is howling, rattling the windows of the TARDIS as the Doctor cuts the engine on a now-familiar street just a quick walk away from VOR. She waits for a moment, stuffing her key in her pocket, before shoving the door open and hopping out onto the tarmac. The others clamber out beside her, pulling their coats tight around them against the weather.

“Do we have a plan or anything, then?” O asks, looking a bit anxious about the whole thing, like maybe he’s regretting coming. He’s been tapping on his leg the whole car journey, a nervous ostinato – _one two three four, one two three four._ But he’d been insistent on coming with them when he’d arrived back at his house after work that day and found them getting ready to go out again, even though he’d been pretty certain he’d end up losing his job because of it.

“ _After all,_ ” he’d said. “ _I think after all this comes to light, being fired might turn out to be quite a blessing.”_

Apparently, Barton had returned from the conference, but not mentioned a thing to any of the science team about unruly reporters. Nor had O heard anything about suddenly shutting down all the experiments or hiding evidence. The Doctor’s taking that as a good sign – maybe Barton doesn’t think they’ll be so bold as to act so soon. Of course, this could all just be a trap, but – well, it would be a bit cliché, she thinks.

At his question, Yaz scoffs. “The Doctor? Having a plan? When does _that_ happen?”

“I have plans!” the Doctor protests. “I have lots of plans! All the time! Just at different stages of completion.”

Ryan snorts. “Yeah, sometimes you just have the letter ‘p’.”

“…‘Lan’?” she hears O mutter to himself, bewildered, and she can’t help but turn and smile at him. He catches her looking, and manages to smile back – but in thins out quickly, and hers follows in tandem. The restless anger in her chest is suffocating, almost claustrophobic, and it leaves no room for anything more than fleeting amusement. And she sees some of that mirrored in his own wide eyes – the flickering of flames, hidden behind a nervous expression.

She just gives him a nod.

_We’ve got this._

He nods back, lips pursed.

The walk to VOR is not long, but it feels like an eternity has passed before they’re standing in that lift again, stomachs twisting as the numbers flick down, down, down. Each footstep is heavy, ponderous, like her boots are lined with lead. But the adrenaline has begun to surge through her veins, heart thumping in her ears, and she clenches her fists once, twice, before the doors of the lift slide open with a cheerful _ping!_

“Alright fam,” she says, striding forwards already, “last time I said don’t take anything. _This time,_ if you see something that would make handy evidence, grab it. Because legality-wise, I think we’re gonna be covered by the whole _unethical human experimentation_ thing I’m going to expose the second we get out of here.”

“Where are the people you found, Doc?” Graham asks. “How many are there?”

“Down here. And I just saw nine,” she says. “But there might be more.”

“Yeah,” Yaz says. “Especially if what I read on that label about there being more than thirty participants were right. Doctor, how are we going to get them all somewhere safe? I still think we should –”

“Not calling the police,” she replies, shooting Yaz an apologetic look. She presses the keycard against the pad, and the door clicks open, leading back into the open lab space they’d found yesterday. “Sorry. They’ll take too long not believing me and by that time –”

“It could be too late,” O finishes for her. “No, I’m with the Doctor. We need to do it, now.”

“But Yaz ‘s still got a point,” Ryan says. “How are we gonna get them all somewhere? The TARDIS ain’t gonna fit that many, is it? Not with us too.”

“Oi, the TARDIS is bigger on the inside than she looks!” the Doctor protests, already making a beeline down the corridor where she’d seen light spill out the night before – the corridor that had led her to Ruth, and then, eventually, the unconscious participants. This time, the way ahead is pitch black, sharp shadows cast by her friend’s torches behind her back. “Listen, we’ll figure it out when we get to it. We can call the police then, when we’ve actually got these people _out.”_

O is by her side when she reaches the door at the end. She glances at him as she uses the card to open the door.

“Last time I was in here,” she says, voice low, “we couldn’t find a door into the lab where all the participants were.”

She sees him nod in the torch beams, his eyes lit up with something like understanding. “Yes, I –” He purses his lips, before slipping through the door ahead of her, his hand out. “Follow me?”

For a moment, there’s a strange urge within her to take his hand and let him lead her. She pushes it down, ignoring it – not the time – and just nods instead. “Lead the way.”

He ducks his head, before heading to the left with a purposeful stride. She follows behind him, the rest of the fam hot on her heels. As they pass the first door that she and Ruth had found, Yaz matches her pace, their shoulders almost brushing.

“When we find them,” she says quietly, “we’re getting those things off their necks.”

It isn’t a question, even if it feels like it’s trying to be. She looks at Yaz, guilt bristling in her lungs, all sharp and jagged edges.

“‘Course we will,” she murmurs back, keeping her tone light – for Yaz’s sake or her own, she’s not quite sure. “We’d have a time carrying them all out otherwise.”

She sees some of the tension seep from her friend’s shoulders, just before she realises that O has stopped ahead of them. It’s a bit further along than she’d expected – they’ve already passed a second door – but she doesn’t question it. He knows this place far better than any of them, after all. And even if that wasn’t the case…

She trusts him. Now, more than ever.

He pulls his own keycard out of his pocket and presses it against the pad, and the door clicks open as he pushes against it.

“The lab is separated from the operation room to ensure people go through proper procedure before…interacting with the participants,” O explains as he enters the room, his face sombre. He reaches around to flick on the light, and as the Doctor takes in the space around her through squinted eyes against the sudden brightness. It mostly looks like a changing area crossed with a set-up area for equipment, with hooks full of labcoats on one wall and cabinets full of drawers across two of the others. The final wall is taken up by a large door, the likes of which the Doctor would have expected to see for some kind of decontamination chamber. She frowns, not liking the look of it.

“Is it safe to go in there?” Graham asks, probably thinking along the same lines.

O looks up, and then winces. “It’s not dangerous. To be honest, I think they mainly used that lab to stop anyone, ah, getting out who wasn’t supposed to.”

“Of course they did,” Yaz mutters in response, her tone appalled. The Doctor watches as her hand goes to the back of her neck, fingers ghosting over the gauze. She looks away, swallowing the guilt, only for her eyes to find O looking through a drawer. She walks over to him, opening her mouth to ask what he’s doing, when he holds out a large notebook to her.

“Hold this for me,” he says, and she does, frowning. She flips it round so it’s the right way up, and can’t help but feel a flicker of surprise when she opens it and finds a familiar handwriting scrawled across the page.

“These are your notes?” she asks, curious. He looks up at her, pulling another handful of notebooks and a folder before closing the drawer.

“That one is, yes,” he replies, putting the pile into his bag before making his way towards the sealed doorway. “One of the other scientists borrowed it earlier, and I forgot to grab it before. But I thought we might as well take the rest of their notes while we’re at it, right? Might be something useful in there.”

She nods approvingly, still holding onto his notebook. “Good thinking. Those will be _great._ ”

He smiles at that, still looking rather nervous, before pushing some buttons into a pad on the wall, and then pressing his thumb against a small scanner. Clearly, the larger door is not keypad activated – maybe they decided that a participant stealing a card was too high a risk. Her lip curls with disgust at Barton and all the people who decided this was all fine as the door gives out a long beep, followed by a hydraulic _hiss_ and slides open. Oh, she’s going to make them pay for this. She’s going to leave nothing standing.

“Follow me, then,” O says, leading the way through into the next room. The others follow ahead of her, the Doctor sticking at the rear. There’s a sound, and she glances around to see the door slide shut behind them, before locking with a distinct _click._ There is something about it that feels very final, and she’s glad they’ve got O around who knows this place, who will be able to get them out without any problems. She can’t imagine what it must have been like for the participants – being led in and out of this room, knowing that they’re trapped by both locked doors and the Kasaavin on their neck.

“What do you _mean_ you forgot it?” comes Graham’s voice from the door at the other end of the room, which bears the same keypad-and-scanner set up as the last. She turns to look, and finds O is standing by the pad, shoulders hunched and expression sheepish.

Hm.

Maybe she spoke too soon.

“It’s just the stress,” he says, “I’m not used to –” he waves a hand – “this sort of thing. But it’s fine, I wrote it down.” He looks over to the Doctor. “It’s in there, at the back.”

She glances down at the notebook still in her hands. Ah – right. She walks over to them, flicking through all the pages until she reaches the last –

– something catches her eye,  
a flicker dancing at the edges of her mind,  
an intricate curve of red biro ink –

She lands on the back page, and for a moment she just stares at it, trying to think what she’s supposed to be looking at whilst something bristles at the back of her mind, unnerving. Oh – oh right, yes, door code. She sees them, in a neat box at the top of the page.

“Second one?” she clarifies.

“Yep,” O replies, somehow managing to dump a vat’s worth of nervousness into the one syllable.

“130699,” she reads out, but her mind is not on the page before her. No – she’s still stuck in a few moments previous, the pages fluttering between her hands.

She’d seen something.

What had she seen?

“There we go,” O says, far away in her ears as the door beeps. “See? It’s all fine.”

She begins to flick back, not moving forward with the others, not even hearing them.

What had she _seen?_

She’s almost in the middle of the notebook when she finds it, and the breath immediately leaves her lungs.

_That’s not possible._

Numb, her hand moves across the page of its own volition, tracing the indentations of the biro on the page. She can’t move. She can’t _breathe._ This isn’t – this _can’t be_ –

It doesn’t make _any sense._

Because before her lies a double page spread crammed _full_ of those circling symbols, the ones she thought only she could understand.

_Her cipher. Her code._

The one she hadn’t been able to find _anywhere else._

She stares down at it, not quite able to process what she’s seeing.

“…Doctor?” says Yaz.

Her head snaps up, finding the others staring at her. The door is partially open, but they haven’t walked through, all of them turned to look at her. But she doesn’t care – she _doesn’t care,_ she’s not even seeing them, she’s just staring at O, uncomprehending.

“This,” she says, her voice faraway and foreign in her ears. Her grip on the notebook is turning her knuckles white. “What is this.”

“What’s what?” O says, his face crumpling with confusion.

She turns the notebook so he can see, so they can _all_ see. The others stare at it, bewildered.

“Whoa,” says Ryan, “but isn’t that –”

“– _your_ code, Doctor?” Yaz completes, staring at her.

But she’s just staring at O, trying to make sense of the strange, new expression that is spreading across his face like an infection, taking over the person she thought she knew.

“It is,” she says. “It _is mine._ And I know I didn’t make it up with you, because I would have remembered it. Because I _remember you_ , and this is – this is from _before that._ ”

 _Do you know that?_ a voice whispers in her head, chiding. _Do you really know that? Do you know your own life?_

And she does, she does, _she does,_ but _–_

_But._

But O is smiling now, and it’s all wrong – all sharp edges where there was nothing but softness before. He hums, like he’s considering what he should do.

“Got me,” he says after a moment, and it’s the most terrifying thing that could have come out of his mouth. “Well done.”

And she just stares at him, unable to speak.

This isn’t O.

This isn’t the person she knows.

This isn’t –

 _Did you ever know him at all?_ her mind whispers.

“What’s going on, Doc?” Graham asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, still gripping the notebook, still staring at O, like maybe there’s something she’s missing, something _obvious._ Some hysterical part of her thinks that this must be Kasaavin, that Barton must have put one of those things on his neck and made him someone he isn’t, but – but that _doesn’t explain how he knows her cipher –_

“Oh, come on, Doctor,” he says. “ _Catch up_.”

“You know me,” she says. “From _before –”_

“Yes,” he says, the grin twisting his face, distorting it. And it just doesn’t seem real, because she’s reaching into her mind, into the places the roads to her past drop off, leaving only the crumbling edge of a ravine and the infinite nothingness before her. She can’t see O’s face in there.

She can’t see _anything_ in there.

But –

“But you _can’t,”_ she says, not wanting to believe it, grasping for any contrary evidence that her brain can supply her with, anything to prove that this is just some cruel, _awful_ joke – “because I _met you._ Before the crash –”

Before her past became lost to her.

“But you _didn’t,”_ he says, a laugh bubbling from his throat, uncontrolled. “We never actually met in person, _did we, Doctor?”_

And he’s right. Just email, because he’d been scared. No photos online, because he was too busy with work to socialise. And he never returned her voice messages with anything other than text. All things she’d cast aside as just _O being O_ that are so insidious now that she’s realised she doesn’t actually know this man at all.

It’s been an act, hasn’t it? All of it has. For _years._

Just a long, long game that she had no idea she’s been playing.

“Who exactly _are_ you then?” Graham says, his voice dangerous. He’s taken a step closer to her, and at any other time the Doctor would have found comfort in it. But right now, she can’t take comfort in anything. She’s just unmoored, her mind reeling, an astronaut untethered and spinning into deep space.

She keeps staring at O – _is that even his name? It isn’t even his NAME –_ and he just keeps staring back at her, grinning like a shark.

“Oh, me and her,” he says. “We go way, way back.” He laughs to himself. “You know, I was wondering if you’d recognise me. In that coffee shop. I really didn’t know how many memories you’d lost – wondering if seeing me might trigger anything. And if it did – well. You’d have known then what this was all about.”

And it’s then that the realisation that has been creeping on her dawns fully, in all its horrific glory.

“You’re behind all this,” she says – and it’s not a question. She can see it, blazing in his eyes. “ _All of it._ What have you _done?_ What –”

Abruptly, she remembers the participants. The people they’re here to _save,_ momentarily forgotten, and she can’t help but hate herself for it – hate _him_ for it. He’s standing in the doorway, but she doesn’t care, surging forwards and pushing past him, shoving the door open and stumbling into the room beyond. The light is on, bright and glaring, and it’s the exact same room she saw from the other side of the glass the previous night, but this time –

This time, all the beds are _empty._

“What?” asks Yaz, coming in behind her. “It’s empty? But Doctor, you said –”

“They were here,” she interrupts, heart pounding in her throat. She feels like she’s going to be sick. She strides further into the room, searching desperately for any clue, any sign, _anything_ that will explain what the hell is going on. But, of course, there’s nothing. This room is clean and bare, like the broken insides of her mind. Her gaze snaps up, looking at O. “What did you _do_ with them?”

He just laughs, deranged, and the sound chills her to the core.

She doesn’t know him at all.

She never did.

Only she does – she _did._ All those times he felt different, felt like _home_ – had that just been something else entirely? Had it just been some buried part of her screaming from the depths, desperately trying to warn her?

“Called away this afternoon,” he says, eyes glinting with fervour. “By me. Because I control _everything,_ Doctor. Even these guys.”

“What?” says Ryan from where he’s standing by the doorway, looking like he desperately wants to _do_ something, but has no idea what. O just ignores him, instead putting his fingers in his mouth and giving an ear-splitting whistle. Barely a second later, the door at the end of the room closest to the Doctor bursts open, and four figures storm in, faces covered by helmets, clad in black with only the white of the rhino symbol on their shoulder for identification. Each one carries a formidable looking rifle. The Doctor flinches away, the notebook falling from her hands in her surprise as she glances back towards the others. Thankfully, they’re further back in the room, out of reach.

But O stands with the other door shut behind him, blocking her only exit.

_(And even then, past that, there’s a door with a thumb scanner that she can’t open)._

She clenches her fists, hoping she doesn’t look as terrified as she feels, even as she grasps onto her fear like a life-raft in a storm.

 _Fear keeps me smart,_ she thinks, desperately trying to rally her spiralling thoughts under control. _Fear keeps me fast._

She just hopes it will be enough to keep her alive.

“That one,” O says to them, a barked order, and he points directly at her. Before she can even react, the closest of the soldiers is upon her, grabbing her by the shoulders and yanking her arms behind her back. She can’t stop the pained yelp that escapes her throat as she fights the intense wave of panic that sweeps through her. The contact sends lightning bristling across her skin, and acting on base instinct, she wrestles, desperately trying to get out, to _escape._ It’s only the sharp _BANG_ of a single shot being fired that snaps her out of it, and she freezes, glancing to her right and the soldier who fired.

“Don’t move,” he growls at her, pointing his gun at the others. “Or the next one will be in their foreheads.”

She snaps her gaze back to them, eyes wild. Yaz has taken steps forward, like she’d tried to do something, tried to _fight this_ – but there’s no way. Yaz is a police officer out of uniform, no back up besides Ryan and Graham, and these guys –

Fully trained soldiers, her frenzied mind supplies. Almost certainly. Ruthlessly competent, and absolutely not afraid to kill someone.

She remembers what Ruth had said – about that symbol, the rhino head –

_“– What does it mean?”  
  
Ruth sighs, all traces of  
smugness dissipating.  
“ **Nothing good** –”_

Yaz looks at her, powerless and distraught, like she’s realised the same thing.

O pushes past, walking right up to where the Doctor is trapped, straining against her captor’s grip even as she resists the urge to struggle any further. His face almost against hers, and she looks in his eyes, as close as they had been that night on his roof. The feral spike of betrayal that bursts in her chest is only barely contained by her ribcage, emotions pressing against her skin, her bones. She’s going to burst open, she can _feel it,_ and he’s just going to watch as her insides spill out onto the floor with eyes that no longer reflect the night sky. No, there are no more scattered stars – just a universe raging with fire.

“Get away from her!” Yaz cries.

“Yeah, leave her alone!” Ryan adds, their voices desperate, panicked.

But O just ignores them, comfortable, knowing that there’s nothing they can do with three guns pointed at them.

“What do you think, then?” he asks her, his eyes searching her face. “Anything coming back? Even a _hint_ of recognition?”

“Is that all this was?” she asks, appalled and incredulous. “Just to try and get me to recognise you?”

A laugh bursts from his lips again. “Oh, no no. This, Doctor, was just a little game. Just like old times. And you know what?” His grin somehow widens, manic, as he leans even closer, forcing her to pull her head back as far as she can. “I have had a _lot_ of fun!”

He pulls back suddenly, pulling back his sleeve and revealing a high-tech looking watch. He presses a couple of buttons on it as he speaks. “Speaking of _fun…_ ”

He turns to glance back at the others – her _fam,_ trapped, because she trusted someone she shouldn’t have. “I should probably mention – there’s a bomb rigged to destroy these labs in, oh, ten minutes?” He chuckles, turning back to the Doctor. “Wouldn’t want to leave any _evidence_ behind, would we?”

“ _What?!”_ Yaz says.

“Whilst we’re all in here?” Graham says. “You’ve gone _completely mad!”_

“No – _you_ will be in here,” O corrects, pulling his sleeve back over his watch. “ _We_ are leaving.”

He nods at the soldiers, and the one holding her doesn’t even hesitate, dragging her back towards the door that they’d come from.

“And don’t even _think_ about following us,” O snarls, before turning his back and following them out.

“No – no _way, DOCTOR –!”_ Ryan shouts, his voice nothing but pure terror and horror.

The primal urge to _fight_ is almost more than she can stand, but she _can’t._ She can’t risk getting them all shot –

Even if they’re going to die anyway.

_A bomb._

_Ten minutes._

And so, so many locked doors between them and safety.

“Let them _go,_ ” she pleads to O. “ _Just let them go.”_

O just laughs, considering something for a moment, like this whole place isn’t about to blow to kingdom come in a few minutes.

“Oh, I suppose a little chance makes it more fun,” he says, and then pulls out his keycard out of his pocket. He throws it on the ground before them, like a scrap of meat for a pack of starving dogs. “Even if there’s still no _hope_ for them.”

They’ve now dragged her out into the dark, service corridor beyond, the remaining soldiers filing out behind them. She can barely see the others past them, but she can _hear them,_ desperately shouting her name.

“JUST _GET OUT!”_ she shouts, needing them to be ok, to _survive._ They can’t die here, they can’t, _they can’t._ “Please, just _GO!”_

She doesn’t get to hear their response, doesn’t get to see if they start moving, before the last soldier has slammed the door shut with a _BANG._

There’s no time to react – no time to acknowledge that those last few moments might have been the last time she would ever see any of them. The soldier holding her is dragging her along, almost running, and she struggles to get her feet under her.

“ _Faster,_ ” her captor growls as she stumbles. “What about _ten minutes_ didn’t you _understand?_ ”

“I’m _trying,”_ she snarls back, finally managing to match his pace. Adrenaline rages through her, panic flaring through every synapse. She needs to think, _she needs to think_ – there’s got to be a way out of this, she’s _smart,_ she can _figure a way out_ if she can just get her _brain to work_ –

But her mind is in a state of shock, overloaded servers and blown fuses. Everything about him – the emails, the jokes, the _friendship._ It had all been fake. And the _case –_ no, dammit, _cases._ Had he been behind the other one too? Had it just been to get her attention? Had he _killed_ _people_ just to make her look?

But then why hadn’t he revealed who he was back then?

_Why hadn’t he said something when she had her memories?_

_Why has he done ANY of this?!_

Who – who the hell _is he_ to her that it could _warrant –_

She trips, her feet hitting a step as she fails to lift them in her haze. Her captor snarls an insult in her ear, but she barely even hears it, trying desperately to focus on clambering up the stairs she’s being dragged up as her thoughts spiral.

_Who is he?_

_Who is he?_

And, of course, it’s awful companion:

_Who is **she?**_

The concrete stairs lead upwards to a non-descript grey door, which is shoved open to reveal some kind of understorey car park or loading bay. The space is empty, besides the sole, black van that sits a few metres away, side door pulled open like a bad omen she knows all too well. She immediately digs her heels in, not even _caring_ that this whole place is apparently rigged to explode, because no _way_ is she being thrown in the back of that thing without a fight –

But then there’s a hand brushing against the back of her head, fingers in her hair, and she flinches, only to find O standing right next to her, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

“One last thing,” he says, so close, _too close._ “Something you should know before your life changes forever.”

She jerks her head out of his grip, even though she can’t get far with the soldier still holding her. But she can see his face now, see the raging inferno blazing in his eyes, full of fury and a paradoxical sort of misery that she can’t understand, can’t even _begin_ to comprehend. The friend turned stranger. Her breathing is ragged now, coming in short, shallow gasps. She has to get out of this. _She has to._

“Everything that you think you know,” he says, grin manic but his eyes so _sad_ as he reaches for her again, hand coming to the back of her neck, “is a _LIE.”_

Cold metal brushes against the skin on her neck, the curve of a disc, before suddenly it’s _biting down, burrowing into the skin_ and there’s nothing she can do other than stare at him in _horror, because she knows what this is –_

_No, no no no no nononono –!_

_“Got you,_ ” he growls. “ _Finally.”_

And then – 

There is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all should have known it was going to end this way
> 
> BUT AHH??? PART ONE IS OVER!! Huge thank you to everyone who has been reading this - your comments, kudos, and general love and excitement has been so incredible and so encouraging. You'll be glad to hear that I've almost finished writing part two (I'm actually on the last scene at the moment), and if I can get it all edited and sorted out in time, I should begin posting that the week after next. But until then, I really REALLY hope you enjoyed this chapter (and this story as a whole so far!!) - please let me know what you thought! Yell at me, I love it - either in the comments or over on my tumblr (@picnokinesis). Oh, and if you want to get a better look at the artwork (which I hope worked - I've never embedded artwork on ao3 before HAHA), it's [right over here](https://picnokinesis.tumblr.com/post/642221488570777600/a-laugh-bursts-from-his-lips-again-oh-no-no) on tumblr
> 
> Again, thank you SO MUCH everyone for reading! It's only going to get wilder from here on out
> 
> (sidenote: I completely forgot to shout out to another fic that inspired this one, in particular the scenes at the conference - it's an absolutely fantastic Venom fic called Muckraker!, which you can find [right here!](https://orphaned.monster/dat/fic-muckraker-venom/))


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